I think it’s been about five years, and people still ask about you.
I think it’s been five years because I don’t count. I’ve never counted. I try not think about it at all.
When I do try to talk about you, I never know where to begin. The first time I saw you and we locked eyes across a common hall packed full of students too young to drink? Or… your mouth pressed to mine on the balcony in that little town in Spain, high above the world or… that time you got down on one knee and pulled out your grandmother’s ring.
Everyone wants the story, and for once in my life, I don’t know what to say.
I knew you better, and I loved you harder, than anything before or since. I’m still trying to write about you, where do I ever begin.
When we were living in New England, we raced to the top of the hill in the snow, only to have three busses pass us by and leave us shouting, cursing in the slush. In the nine months I’ve lived here I have grown to hate blizzards, public transit, and the ever growing hole in my left boot that I still can’t afford to replace.
We stood there, growing later for work by the minute, shivering in the dull February morning. I looked up into the grey sky, all doey eyed California girl, and remark to him on how the snow looks like little jagged chunks. It only snowed once every other year or so when I was a child, I said. I’ve never really had the chance to see it closely.
He grins, feigning disbelief. “My American baby,” he says, laughing. I tell him to shut up as he hooks his arm around my back and draws me to him.
He scrapes my collar with his credit card, and holds it up for me. I am twenty six years old. I have never seen a snowflake. I stare at it, all tiny and perfect as he holds me to him with his other arm – and I can feel him – warm in 10 degrees below zero, warm in the slush up our calves, warm through the two overcoats, three sweaters, and four shirts between us.
I am beaming. I am full of love.