The Same Exact Spot

The same exact spot, February 2015 vs. May 2025. 

Dirt and gravel turned to concrete and grass. Footsteps and jangling dog tags replaced by wind and a squawking bird. I laughed and smiled so much then, usually at just the way he walked or the look on his face as he came to greet me. 

Every choice I've made for the last 13 years (half of my adult life) was made with him, for him, or because of him. I got back to Long Beach in 2012 with no car, no house, no career, no business, and no idea what I was doing. The only constant was him. The only anchor I've known. Everything would always be OK, somehow, because of him. And it actually was. I chose to build a life for us, and it was a mostly great 13 years. When things felt like they were ending for me or maybe even the whole world (a traumatic brain injury here, a global pandemic there), it was him who got me through.

I haven't made any progress on coming to terms with the fact that he left without me having a chance to say goodbye, but I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I'll never come to terms with this. The suddenness and shock will just have to burn me inside for the rest of my life, and it'll never be OK. There are things in life that we can never make "right" or "OK," and maybe I should be grateful that I've never had to learn that brutal lesson until now.  

Maybe we didn't get a chance to say goodbye to each other because there's actually no such thing. They say we'll all meet again. He probably already knew this. It's crazy but he knew so much more than me, about everything. I think he'd want me to start making some choices again, and I'm going to try and do that for him.