Guess That Is How I Know You

Epilogue

I remember when I was in my twenties and I had just met you. I was so young then, and you seemed so put together. How easy it was to let myself be drawn to you. Suddenly I felt once again like the child who used to run after those fireflies in a warm night—they were always warm, those nights at my family's farm—only you were not quite as easy to catch.

I did catch you though, or better yet, you caught me, didn't you?

Eventually there were no more lies and deception, no more fighting the pull that always managed to make us come together regardless of how many times we both pushed each other away. And at last, you caved, after three years' worth of complications and drama, life finally truly started for me.

But those years are long gone now, and I miss you terribly. I always make sure to remind myself you were worth the pain and suffering I eventually came to endure. I had ten Valentine's with you, and they were each as memorable as the first one.

The remorse is still very much palpable, whenever someone tells me how fortunate I was to have had you for so long.

I do not feel fortunate, I do not feel I had long enough. In fact, time and again I wish I had had more time with you. More often than not, I will hear a murmur in the back of my mind. It is your voice whispering I am entitled to feel ill-treated by the universe even if people tell me otherwise—that is just something you would say.

The thing is you are not here, not anymore. And thinking about your absence brings it back into surface, the guilt. Guilt for being the one that remained. You parted first, soon, and unexpectedly. You had no clue that day would turn out to be your last—although I bet you lived it to its fullest, that was just your way, wasn't it?

But most of all, I envy you for you were not the one who had to endure life on your own.

I should not have to feel all those things, because you were supposed to be by my side, you promised me that much.

Sometimes, as I sit at the bench in front of your headstone, I hope that maybe, just maybe, you are somewhat keeping that promise.

I used to think how morbid it seemed to visit someone's grave, that was before you left. Somehow along the way it became a ritual, sitting by your tombstone in silence, reminiscing.

Other times, throughout the memories, my anger takes place, and my eyes get hot, and the tears gather making my vision turn blurry. During those times I fight to keep the tears at bay as a last resort of convincing myself I am not half as broken inside as everyone seems to believe—they are right though, I am shattered, and no glue or duct tape can manage to keep the pieces together.

This bench became my companion throughout weekends, holidays, or any other free time really. After you died there was just nothing else that managed to fulfill the void. God knows I tried. You know I tried.

Year after year I watched as the grass turned green, and orange, and gray, and then not there at all, until it became green again.

For a while I took flowers with me, until the day I realized you would have hated it. You were never one for flowers. They were beautiful in a painting sure, but close to your nose they became nothing but a nuisance. I bought some fake ones instead and left them in that sapphire-blue Viennese vase that had once furnished our dining room, your favorite.

For many years I visited your grave, religiously almost, to the point I had forgotten how long you had truly been gone. Until today.

Today, sitting on this bench while facing your last resting place covered in new patches of green, I took notice of the date engraved on the white marble and realized I had, since your passing, undoubtedly outlived our time together.