A List of Things I Want To Tell Andrea

Now that they know everything

Gibby,

There is a list in my phone of things I want to tell you. (Because where else can I put them?)

Early in our relationship, when we were still long distance, back when I still got nervous seeing your name light up my screen, I kept a similar list. I wanted to be ready when we talked at night. I wanted to be endlessly interesting.

Now, as I tap the details of my days into my notes app, part of me pretends we’re long distance again. That I’m just waiting for you to call. You would want me to know that you already hear every word. There’s no hanging up. No disconnection. The line between us is always clear. Your faith in that was so strong. If wills were less legal-jargon and more Andrea-poem, you would have me inherit all of your faith now. Forgive me if I am clumsy as I try to fit into the heirloom of your cosmic certainty. I promise I will grow into it. What choice do I have if I want to keep you so close?

Right now you are laughing somewhere in the ether. It’s funny to you, me thinking you don’t see every minute of this. (God, I miss your smile. The way it hit your face like a stone skipping the water, how it rippled outward, echoing in your skin.)

But writing has always been my best method for speaking. To others, to myself, to something beyond us all. So even if you already know everything now, let me write it, okay? Let me do what I’ve always done: give my heart shape with language.Here are just a few of the things I want to tell you:

***

Your six-and-a-half year old godson, the one who calls you Ankle (a mix of Aunt and Uncle) was a bit confused when he came over yesterday. Had he ever seen us not together?

“Meggers,” he said. “I thought you and Ankle were one person with two heads.” 
“Oh, kiddo,” I said. “Me too.”

***

Even though you took your last breath in my arms, it still doesn’t feel real. To see an end-date beside your birthday—what a farce. “I am more with you than I ever was before,” you wrote. And it’s true even in the most basic way: the whole world is speaking your name.Right now, our house looks like a Barnes and Noble stockroom. As I write this, the house rings with the sound of people packaging your books. These impromptu factory workers include the muses of so many of your poems:

1. your first-love
2. your angel of the get through
3. your “maybe i need you”
4. your “year of no grudges”
5. so many friends
6. and your therapist.

One of them is telling stories about how she used to help you burn your CDs by hand and spend hours making the sleeves out of recycled soymilk containers because you were that committed to the planet. How she’s been packaging your art for years. Of course she still is.

I used to say your delegation skills were presidential.But the assembly line of love carrying on without you is impressive. Even for you, baby.

***

I sleep on your side of the bed now. The thought of turning over and seeing an empty space where you slept beside me for a decade seemed unbearable. Now, when I look over, it’s from your perspective. It’s me who’s missing.

But I’m not missing. I’m here.

If I went missing, if I disappeared into a depressive fog, if I called this unfair, I wouldn’t be honoring the tradition of how we faced these last four years together, would I? I’d be unwriting our living prayer. So here I am. Going to try to feel it all like you taught me. You taught me that depression isn’t sadness, but the pressing down of feelings. You taught me that crying is a super-power. So here I am. Crying because someone kindly threw out the trash with the last of your tissues in it. Crying because your boots are no longer carrying you through the world, but on my writing desk beside the flowers that keep arriving. Crying because I have no idea what to do with your toothbrush.

I’m going to keep writing you, okay? I’m going to keep listening for your response. You know where to find me. On your side of the bed. In the imprint of the place where you dreamed.

I love you. You know that. 
-Mega 🖤

PS. What do I do with your toothbrush?

Thank you for being here.