Memories and photographs

I guess we've come to the morbid part of the blog.

I was thinking today how bizarre and terribly sad it is to me that all we have left of Nick are memories, photographs, and some material possessions. So much of what we know of someone comes from our five senses- what they look like, how they smell, the sound of their voice and laugh, their touch. I vividly remember the sight of Nick- 6'1" of beautiful olive colored skin, big brown eyes, awesome facial hair, long and silky dark hair. I remember the ink sleeves on his arms, the sandals he always wore (trademark hippie style), the chain he always wore around his neck. I remember so much about our time together this summer. The way his hands felt on my waist, the way it felt to hug him as he would hold me. The way he would nestle into my chest and breathe me in. The way I would run my hands through his hair. The way my face would feel after kissing him with all that facial hair. The way he always smelled like a combination of metal and wood from the shop and pork from all the cooking he'd do. The way it felt to snuggle into him as he would rub my back. The way his hands looked as he would prepare pork for the smoker. The way he'd lean into me on the couch as we watched HGTV. These memories are ingrained in my mind. And they are all based in my senses and the way they interacted with Nick.

I put together some of my favorite camp photos today and thought about this. How hard it is when someone you loved so much is gone and you can no longer hear their laughter, smell their signature scent, touch their skin, look into their eyes. I guess I always thought of loss as losing a relationship more than losing a presence, but now I see it is both.

All of these memories are you, Nick, and I worry so much that I will forget you. I worry I'll forget about camp. I worry I'll forget the look of concentration you had as you taught me about your pork recipe. The way I asked "Can I know what's in the rub?" And the way you responded "I want to tell you someday" with a wink. The way you looked into my eyes and said "You should come to Nashville with me this fall. We'd have a blast. You'd love it." That devilish grin you always gave me when you'd tease me. The way you'd whistle to Syd when she was off tracking a critter. The way your eyes would look when I came to you with a project idea and you were thinking of some way to kick it up a notch. The way you liked to tease me in front of our friends for being a "cradle robber" when I was a total of 9 days older. These things are you, just as much as your zest for life, your care and concern for others, your sense of humor, your prankster style, your ability to work with your hands, your love of dogs, your love of the great outdoors, and on and on.

I guess the bottom line is it kills me when I remember that these things are physically gone and I can never see them again here on this Earth. I am a person of faith, so I do believe I will experience all these aspects of you someday in some other place, but it feels like an eternity until that day comes. And every time I remind myself of these realities, it feels like someone has driven a knife into my chest. I cannot kiss you. I cannot hug you. I cannot comfort you. I cannot call you. I cannot help you build things. We cannot build my headboard. We're not going to Nashville. The days at camp will never, ever be the same. The five musketeers will be four, and sadly, a cloud of sadness will hang over the whole affair. I just never realized how much the physical loss of you would bother me as much as the emotional loss of you.

I guess that's why I enjoy visiting your house so much. It's an encapsulated piece of you. Your house remains the way it was when you left it early Monday morning, August 18th. Your bed still isn't made. You always thought it was a waste of time to make the bed, and I tend to agree. Your shop is as it was. The furniture is still out on the porch from this summer. Those bags of mulch I said I'd put in the garden are still stacked by the garage. You'd never let me put them down. "I'd rather spend quality time with you!" But some things are very different and remind me that you are gone. There were always empties by the sink and on the counters. Your siblings have taken those in to be recycled. The bathroom has been tidied up and your jewelry catch all is empty as your siblings have collected those pieces as memorials of you. The bench by the pond has been overturned for the winter. Your car is parked differently than you would've parked it.

Ironically, these things make me feel like you're still here and gone forever all at the same time. Your room smells like you, so how could you be gone? But there would never be a clean counter if you were here, so I know it can't be. You would've brought your bench in for the winter along with the furniture, too. 

I miss you so much it hurts to type this. Sometimes I find myself bursting into tears out of nowhere, and always, without fail, the first words out of my mouth are "I miss you so much!". I do. And I guess I thought it'd be easier by now. I also beat myself up and tell myself I have no right to miss you this much. I wasn't your long time girlfriend. I'm not one of your siblings. I should have moved on by now. These are the thoughts in my mind. But none of it changes the fact that my life changed forever on August 19th, and it will never be the same. I miss you, and I grieve the loss of a 20 year friend, as well as someone I had imagined forever with. Nothing makes this pill easier to swallow. We're going on five months and in many ways, I miss you more now than I did a couple months ago. Thankfully, I don't have that awful, nauseous feeling of fainting every time I think about the grief. It's more physical exhaustion than physical illness these days.

I miss you, I love you, and I'll be seeing you.