When Jack first died and I realized that whatever we had was permanently over, I also realized closure would be difficult. We never had a chance to say good-bye, only something like out of a love story: so long, for now, ’til we meet again.
I’m dating again now, someone in particular, someone who knew Jack, and tonight I cried when we were talking about him. I don’t want Jack to be the ghost in the room, and I’m fairly confident The Writer (as I’ll call him) doesn’t view him that way, but he did remind me that the first time he was in my apartment one of the lights was doing this weird flickering thing. I’d forgotten about it.
I don’t know if I’ll ever find closure, and I’m fairly certain I’ll never be fully over the loss, but I also know that moving on is damn hard.
In a conversation with my friend Dave, who has gone through the loss of a love, he said, “It’s like they are 100% perfect, except that they aren’t physically present.”
Except that “except” is a huge qualification. And the only thing I can rely upon is what *is* physically present. And while no one can ever take Jack’s place – or be Jack, obviously – my heart has to be big enough for not only his memory but also for whoever comes after, whether that ends with The Writer or not (and it is far, far too early to tell).
Jack and I had a love story, and we kissed like we were in the movies, but I can have as many love stories as life brings me without it making that one a lie. It’s just a big pill to swallow. And it takes time to get it all down, no matter how much sugar is added to the spoon.