375th Day of Mourning

Yesterday, I led my favorite chess opponent to a stalemate on the 83rd move.  Should I have resigned? He and I are both beginners. We’ve agreed to make the best of any endgame practice we can get, so it wasn’t horribly rude of me to let it go on that long, was it?

I remember you saying, “Never resign!” before I knew enough to ask for your real guidance on the matter.

I have no idea if I ever would’ve worked to get better at chess if you had lived.

When you were alive, I moved the pieces around blindly to mess up the board for you. I called it Monkey with a Rubik’s Cube. It was stupid of me not to make an effort.

I was so overwhelmed in your presence, with what we were doing, that I didn’t attempt to look out for my own pieces. I didn’t even read the ingredients on the cracker box.

Earlier this month, I realized it says right there on the bottom: Contains Milk. I stood there in the grocery store, a year after your death, thinking, God, how did he put up with me?

Weeks after I brought those crackers to your place, when the box remained nearly full, I mentioned, “I can’t believe you haven’t finished these yet.” You, protecting my feelings, didn’t say why.

Now I nearly have an anxiety attack each time I choose a loaf of bread: they almost all contain milk or honey. Except for that Ezekiel brand. So I buy that. And lots of cashews.

I stare at the huge drum of cashews at Smart & Final and remember the one you bought your last week here. You said the man you were subletting from (we called him by his last name), you said he might like the left overs.

Sometimes, when I notice a lone man on the sidewalk heading that way, I wonder if it’s him. I fantasize about calling out his name. But what would I say next?

We had fun joking about the email you thought of sending him, didn’t we? You laughed so hard – your sweet mischievous laugh. It still makes me smile remembering your face in laughter.

I try to keep those memories vivid. They morph so much, and if you were alive now, we’d probably disagree about the details.

Every single day, several times a day, I start conversations in my head with you, and wonder what you’d say. Every single day, several times a day, I know that there is absolutely no way for me to know how those conversations would go. On any topic.

I remember sound bites of things you said to me. Those memories, if accurate, aren’t indicators of what you’d say now.

There’s no resolution. There’s no peace.

Only half remembered memories . . .

. . .  that day over dinner, after you squeezed my hand too hard, was it that day? When I spoke of your departure, I said, “But really, you’ll be in Australia, pursuing happiness. That’s what I want for you.”

I wish you were here to argue with me about everything we said and didn’t say.

I wish you were here for that, and for a thousand other things — mostly having nothing to do with me. And so I could apologize about the crackers.

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This is a follow up to January 25, 2011′s post entitled, “10th Day of Mourning“.

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