(i.e., trying to encourage myself to write/complete things I’ve begun)

The thing about anniversaries is that they can never happen perfectly, as people wish, but instead reflect these eyelashes or arm hairs of movement in time that aren’t spherical, that never reliably lead you back to where you were a year or two ago. In a way I find it comforting, but at the same time haunting, since it eludes any control over feeling sadness in any one particular moment, when the bad thing happened, or the good thing, or the exciting thing.

There is the anniversary of you first loving me, or when I was born. It’s not that I’m really all that selfish or all that into myself, but that might be my favorite anniversary since it’s on that day that I get to think about you loving me by taking me to all of your favorite places from birth, counting cars, removing paper wrapping from straws by pressing them into diner counters. This is the one time that I’m grateful for this non-spherical nature of years, because the anniversary of you loving me bleeds into the day before and the day after the calendrically marked actual day, like ink bleeding deep into the seat of a brand new car, trickling even like bright ink into water, through the river of the other days of the year. It trickles even into the day of you dying, blotting that day out like blue ink blotting out a moth smudged passingly on paper.

There is the anniversary of the day you decided to ride a horse. My grandmother saying, “Charlie!” She wasn’t your mother, but she was still terrified. She said something about how musicians shouldn’t ride horses. You were getting really ambitious on that horse though, and it was hilarious and lovely to see your happiness played out in a sound other than music, in an act other than art.

There’s the anniversary of walking around the campus. These anniversaries were always composed of simple acts—you saying, let’s go see your old apartment. Since in years before we’d gone to see your old dormitory which had become the modern languages building, though you could still point out your room, which we walked into once when the building was being remodeled. You were happy, standing there in the rubble, and most of the time now, these days, that’s how I picture you, slipping through these keyholes of memory, trying to reveal them to me, sometimes getting stuck, sometimes passing through.

I wrote this the other day: one problem is that when I use percent change as the dependent variable, my results are pretty shoddy. Thinking to myself: one true thing is that, amidst all of this change, you’re the one who kept all the memories, and I’m the one who received them. As if only you could put meaning to our timelines, the early years, the difficult years. I was always there, waiting to know it, and waiting to hear it from you. So that now, sitting here, I feel possessionless, my hands like watchtowers with no men watching, no people even to watch over. -3/29/2014

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