I was right. The feeling of peace I had has dissipated. All I’m left with now is the heartache, and the memories that are so good yet so painful. I find myself thinking about these memories often and I can’t seem to stop them. I mean why would I want to? They’re good memories, memories full of love, life, laughter, excitement. What comes after is what makes all this so terrible. The sense of dread, the deep sense of loss. The reminder that those memories will probably never be repeated (if my friends are right).
What I remember most is the feeling of my hand encased by his huge hand, the feeling of my fingers roaming his face and of his doing the same to mine.
I remember his funny accents, how well he impersonated old men, Scottish people, and Aussies. I love these things about him. I love that he makes me laugh, and he remembers that I like to walk on the right side of people, that it’s weird for me to be on the left.
I know the feeling so well, of when we would cuddle and watch Netflix. How I would be between his legs and his arms would be around me. How my head would lay gently across his chest. I remember how safe and secure I felt with him there with me.
I remember his laugh, so loud and deep. I have the shape of his shoulders memorized because my fingers have traced them so many times.
I see his face when I close my eyes and I wake up during the night thinking that I feel his touch. I jump every time my phone buzzes because I expect it to be him. It never is.