Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #35

I'm forgetting those subtle things. It's easy to do when someone isn't around anymore. You can't quite recall the little inflections in their voice, or the sound of their footfalls, or their scent. Little by little, time takes these things, eroding all but the essence of your memory.

It's strange to know everything is unraveling but to not notice until it's too late to do anything about it. And the harder you try to hang on, the quicker these things flee.

So I remember things, but they keep stealing away, little by little.

What happens when all I remember is knowing how I felt about her, but not even really remembering her? That's the thing that will keep me up at night, scratching away at each line and phrase.

I've got to be quicker than that thief, time.

And that's something almost unbelievable: time. You can't quite believe the ebb and flow of it. Though you and Clair had talked about Christmas, and the first snowfall was so far back that you can't remember a world not washed in white, the end of this week would only be Thanksgiving.

You can't help but dread it.

Sure, you'll see Tyler (flying in for the holiday) and your parents and grandma and cousins (and whoever they're dating), but the whole thing will ring hollow.

"Chin up," Clair says, "It'll only be one weekend." But her freckles don't dance, and you can tell by the way she squeezes your hand that she feels the same as you.

And when your mom picks you up, you answer her questions half-heartedly, until you can drop into sullen silence.

"Is everything okay?" She signals to get into the left lane, glancing over her shoulder.

"Yeah. I'm just tired from midterms." It's a sort-of-true lie, the most believable kind.

Midterms are an unpleasant fact of college, but you've found a remedy. (Clair'd filed off the "Do Not Copy" warning on her dorm key, and had presented you with the replica. "It took forever." She grinned, scattering a mess of freckles.

You'd moved in that week, gorging on Oreos and Diet Coke between classes and exams. Both of you had studied, side by side, on Clair's futon, notes and textbooks splayed out before you.

"Good thing you don't have a roommate," you said, taking in the mess.

"I do now." She elbowed you in the ribs, smiling in that pixie way of hers.)

But that spell has broken for the long weekend, and the world has turned grey and lifeless in her absence, the way Novembers are prone to. You press your forehead to the cool glass, and let the world pass you by.

That Wednesday night (driving home with your mom, face against the glass), unspools into Thanksgiving.

(The night is a blur of washing and sweeping and clearing away clutter and comparing various recipes and so on...)

Your mom, shockingly enough, lectures you and Tyler on holiday protocol (as she does every four years, when it's her turn to host. She reminds you of a volcano or a Pomeranian.), and Tyler raises his eyebrows at you, before taking a bite out of the pie that is (was) forbidden-until-the-guests-get-here. (She glares, but Tyler wraps her in a hug until she laughs. All is forgiven.)

The preparation had kept you occupied, but surrounded by family the next day, you can't help but feel a pang in your chest. You want Clair to be there when you're dared to eat a slice of pickled herring (you wrangle $14 out of that deal) and when Tyler tries to feed you stuffing by making airplane noises because, "You're being a baby." (You stick out your tongue, and Will breaks in saying, "You are what you eat," and the 'Kids' table' erupts in a gale of laughter.)

But she's not there, so you record everything like a snapshot in your mind, stories you'll tell her after the break. (Break break b r e a k. It feels like the wrong word to you. A splintered bone or a damaged relationship. The word makes you dizzy.)

Holiday, then. (Holidays: glazed with snow and sugar. Nothing painful about that.)

The afternoon always takes on the same lazy feel. Some of your relatives (usually your uncles) always sneak off to find free couches and drift into turkey-stuffed lethargy. If you're lucky, you and Tyler can find someone to play a game of cards with, even though everyone knows you've come up with a set of ever-changing hand signals to table talk.

But the food doesn't fill you up and the game doesn't distract you, and your mind is left to wander back to The Cities.

You try not to think this way, but your life is compressed without her. There are small bursts of color, but everything is pushed into palm-sized boxes. You'll unwrap them for her, but they're only a few splinters of time. With Clair, each moment unravels into the next in a continuous crescendo. Everything star-bright, everything building and building and building.

But you have moments here, so you'll feed them to her. And then you both can continue living, bigger and bigger and bigger, the way you should.