I’m supposed to be a writer, which means I’m supposed to have words.
I’m supposed to be a writer. I have no words, so instead I’m repeating myself.
But this isn’t about me, actually.
It’s about you.
Crossword puzzles. Cups of coffee. Taking in the world from the balcony. Stories of the past whenever we were willing to listen. Those young men have a lot to learn when it comes to cutting bagels.
You kept up a running commentary about the state of the world as we drove to your mechanic and related the ethnic and neighbourhood shifts of Montreal. You read the Gazette every day and you’d seen the world change. You had opinions and you made me laugh.
I’m smiling to think of the quips that often came under your breath when you didn’t know anyone was listening, or maybe you did and maybe that was the point. I’m smiling at the expressions that took up your whole face when you’d share a conspiratorial glance and a grin.
I saw you happiest that one summer at the lake and I’ve missed it ever since. When you smiled, it was impossible not to smile back.
I’m not at my most eloquent and I wish I could be. Maybe the rest of the words are caught up in the waves of feelings that we all rode together, some frequent companions and some too fleeting to even be consciously known.
We were there, and you knew we were there, and we knew that you knew.
We were all there and you are right here.
I miss you. I love you.
May your memory be a blessing.