The Dawn And The Day

This is a reflection on an experience described in a post from November 5, 2012 entitled The Other Side Of The World - Part II.

I remember you in pieces, now.

Like when you pulled up to the valet and you were wearing a blue shirt. Or maybe it was white. Or coral.

And you were wearing a backpack, and I thought that was weird and a little premature for a first meeting.

You were built like me. Only leaner. Which made me insecure about my stomach and my arms.

I didn't feel pressured to impress you, which I noticed. You seemed nervous, which we both noticed.

On the beach, we sat at the water's edge, and your hip touched my hip first.

You looked down and smiled when you said I was sexy, and the gesture didn't appear affected to me.

Maybe your shirt was maroon. Or teal. Or maybe some kind of pale yellow.

Your car was red and it had a sunroof, but I can't remember anything else about it.

When we stopped for gas, I took a picture of you when you weren't looking. I remember it was fuzzy because you were moving. That was with my old phone, so I don't have the picture anymore. I'm sorry about that.

There were lots of stars. The most I've ever seen in the sky. And through the open sunroof, we stared at them and turned to one another to wordlessly ask, "Can you believe this?"

I remember wondering if you did this with every vacationer from the mainland.

We kissed a lot that night, but I can only remember the first time. I'm sorry about that, too.

We saw each other again the next night. This time, I met you at your hotel in Lahaina. I wandered the lobby and the pool area until you found me.

We went back to your place, which was messy and boyish.

We had sex for the first time, and it was good.

You put on The Hunger Games and I fell asleep before the reaping.

The next night, I was having dinner with my dad on your side of the island and you happened to be in the bar next door.

My dad went back to Wailea and I stayed with you.

We went to Mic Fleetwood's bar and we got in a fight about something serious. I remember being very angry with you. We each closed our tabs and we left. I asked you to take me back to my hotel.

In front of the valet, you asked if I would let you show me one last thing. I said yes. And then you pulled away and down a dark pathway into the woods.

The water was black and the moon made it look like shiny leather. There were more stars here, too. We climbed into the back seat and we kissed. I remember this. And then we had sex again. I don't remember if there was music or not, but it sounded like there was. You told me you loved me. I said I loved you, too.

I held your face in my hands when I kissed you goodbye. You told me you'd see me again in the morning. I remember thinking that this was the last time I would ever see you. And I was right.

I waited until my plane was boarding before I called to tell you that I was leaving the island a day early. A hurricane in the Gulf. I waited because I knew you'd try to stop me. And I remember crying. And I remember lying to you to make you feel better. You heard my voice crack, so you told me that there was lube in your backpack the first night we met and I started laughing my ass off. We said goodbye and I texted you when I landed in Atlanta and then when I landed in New Orleans.

I remember the first time we Skyped. I remember the second time we Skyped. I remember the last time we Skyped. But those are the only ones I remember. I'm sorry about that.

I remember staying up late and writing you letters. And I remember when I got your postcard in the mail. And I remember pressing it again my chest because that's what you do with postcards, right?

It's been a year since we met. And I still remember your face often and the way it felt in my hands. I recall these memories from time to time, and when one unravels in my head, the others come undone, too, and suddenly, I'm reviewing our entire history in fragments and shards. The timeline is broken up and I can't storyboard the events in chronological order. But I really, really want to because that's all we have. We can't make new memories. We've only got this small window in time that's been shattered across 368 days.

I remember taking the elevator up to my room after you dropped me off that first night. I remember pulling my phone out of my pocket on the breezeway. I remember calling John and saying, "I just met the person I'm going to marry." And I remember hearing how crazy that sounded. And I remember not caring.

It's 11:25PM where you are right now, which makes it 4:25AM here.

We just told one another goodnight. But before that, you helped me remember some very special memories I'd forgotten. And we celebrated one year by saying sentimental things and also the word "fuck" a lot.

The sun will be up soon, but even if I stayed awake to watch it, I probably wouldn't remember it because sunrises are forgettable. They happen every 24 hours. The dawn and the day that follows it are reminders of night's finiteness. Sunshine bleaches out the stars again and it all feels routine and militarized.

Besides, if the sun isn't rising in your company, then why should I pay it any attention?