Tonight, I will finish off the last of the vodka from the last bottle J brought with him the last time he was here. It wasn’t the last time I saw him, but it was the last time he was here. It was the last time we were us.
If you repeat the word “last” over and over again, it starts to lose its meaning. At some point, it stops sounding like a word at all, and instead, it sounds a lot like nonsense.
J and I had a lot of lasts. We had too many lasts.
I said goodbye too many times — in practice and in my heart. Each and every time I hated it, not because it was inevitable, but because I couldn’t manage to do it right. I wanted to be profound, or sweet, or wise, or strong… but I wasn’t.
I wasn’t any of those things. I had too many opportunities, but I couldn’t manage to be any of those things… over and over again.
J is gone.
He’s been gone for some time. He left more than a month ago. I haven’t said as much directly, not because I can’t say it or because I don’t want to say it, but because I’m not sure what to say after I’ve said it.
J is gone.
I said it.
And now I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know what I should drink to when I finish off the last of the vodka from the last of the bottles J brought with him the last time he was here… the last time we were us.
Cheers… to sharing the bottle alone.
Cheers… to love and loss and all of the beautiful ugly in-betweens.