The other day I was talking to a friend who was telling me about a TV show she used to enjoy. Without thinking, I commented, “Oh, yeah. Mike introduced me to that show. We really enjoyed it, too!”
She is used to me talking about Mike like this. Like he is just in the next room. Or like we watched this show just yesterday. Like he is not actually gone from this world.
But not everyone is comfortable with this.
Once, while eating Indian takeout at a friend’s house, I said, “Aloo gobi was Mike’s favorite,” and I could sense how uncomfortable I made people feel with that comment. It was apparent in the awkward silence that followed, even if it was only for a second or two.
I immediately felt sorry for saying what I did.
The thing is, there is so much in the everyday that reminds me of Mike: making coffee, getting in the car and checking if everyone has their seatbelt on, songs on the radio, phrases people use, a particular scent. The list goes on and on and on.
And there is something about the grieving heart that seems to constantly be on the lookout for that person it is aching for. In its search, the heart digs deep into a well of memories.
Trust me. I know he’s gone. I know this is fact.
But he is also still very much a part of my consciousness.
Because. My heart.
I may not hear his voice in the same way I used to, but believe me, I still hear his voice.
He may not be in the car with me, but I can anticipate what he would say about that kid crossing the street without looking “left then right then left again.”
Or I can walk into a restaurant and know immediately where he might have liked to sit and what he might have ordered to eat. I could even predict how he would answer a waiter’s benign, “How are we doing today?”
“Better than some but not as good as others!”
And the waiter would say, “Huh? I didn’t get all that.” Or, “Okay then!”
I would roll my eyes. Every single time.
Then I would watch him arrange his money clip, phone, and keys neatly to his right.
My memories of Mike run the gamut. From the mundane to the extraordinary, there are so many to choose from. And all around me are reminders.
He is like a comfy coat I wear every day. A coat I never want to take off.
So yes, I sometimes talk about him like I just left him at home.
Yes, I know that he’s not there.
I know that he will not answer if I call out to him. That I cannot wish him into being. Or even into my dreams.
But I like remembering him. And yes, sometimes I imagine him in my presence.
But mostly, I talk about my memories of our time together. Because memories are all I have left.
And because I miss him.
And I don’t want to forget.
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