I am mourning what feels like the death of my best friend. The person who was always in my corner, the person who made me laugh when no one else could, the person who taught me the overwhelming capacity of my own love.
I have searched, and I have searched. Under beds, behind curtains, in the backseat of my car. I have looked everywhere, asked everyone, "Have you seen my best friend?" and they all shake their heads sadly and shrug. They have not seen him. And when they ask me where I saw him last, I say, "Through bleary eyes in the back of my car, when I lifted my head, unlocked the door and said, 'Hey bud. Good morning,' watched him drop off his GPS, kiss me, smile and then drive away." If only I had known, if only I had known that that would be the last time that I would see him, the last time that I would open my eyes and see his beautiful, kind face. I would have run after him. Jumped out of my car in my bare feet and chased him before he could drive away.
Now, in place of his presence, there is a deep well of sadness within my heart. It extends to my lungs, which are heavy and constricted, to my ribs, which are hollow and rattle when I breath, to my stomach, which is empty, always empty, and always rejecting sustenance, to my arms, my legs, my fingers, and my toes, all of which are tired of this fruitless search, this exhausting one-sided struggle. This sadness fills me up and overflows from my eyes in the form of tears, my mouth in the form of breathless questions with no answers, my fingers in the form of words that make no difference. It fills me up and does not allow me to sleep, does not allow me to rest.
I am mourning. Because my best friend is gone, my best friend is gone. And I am starting to accept that I will never see him again.