Letting Go
1
In all honesty, I don't remember much.
No, that would be a lie. I remember too much. Too much that it sometimes hurts, and I find myself pushing memories of us out of my head. I know it shouldn't hurt. I know that everything, the final decision, it was mutual. And part of me understands. It knows and accepts everything. But the other part, the other part just can't comprehend that you're no longer mine, that you're gone, and that we will never be where we once stood.
I've kept everything: the letters, the photos we took, every single gift. I know I should've thrown them out, or given them away at least. I know that you wouldn't want me lingering in the past. I know that I promised you, like you had promised me, that we'd both move on because it just wasn't right. But sometimes, the past just holds something much more dear to me, and I can't help but to reminiscence.
There were times, moments in my life when everything was too much for me to handle. When problems suffocated me. I'd run straight to the park, to the spot under the big tree with the red leaves- our spot. The markings from when we once foolishly threw darts at the trunk of the tree are still there, and I sometimes wonder if what we had is kind of like that; deep enough to hurt, but strong enough to last even though it's been abandoned.
I sometimes see couples sitting on the same spot, and I wonder if that was what we looked like to everyone else who cared enough to notice us. I wonder if we had made passers by who had just broken up disgusted and jealous with our carelessness and disregard to the rest of the world. Because we knew that all we really needed was each other.
It's true; what we had was special. It was rare, and so full. And back then, I used to think that that was flawless and complete. But now, after all this time, I've come to realise that sometimes, special is just a kinder word used to replace tragic. That being rare simply meant others knew, and looked at us with sympathy.
I've visited you in your new home made of stone and I wondered if you had seen me. That was another promise I had to break, and I'm sorry. Sorry I couldn't be stronger. Sorry I had to disappoint.
I'm pretty sure I dreamt about you last night because I woke up with tears and a recollection of our time together. Some memories were vague, while some others were fresh. The one memory, however, that stung with clarity is the very memory you and I would have loved to forget- our last day together.
My tears this morning were uncontrollable when I remembered the sight I had once grown familiar to; several tubes plugged into you, and the bleached walls of your room; the ward that, it seemed, they saved just for you at the hospital. Your eyes were closed when I arrived, and your face the epitome of serenity. That was the moment, the very second that I realised all these years, I had been nothing but selfish.
You woke up a few seconds later, and when your eyes adjusted, your lips curved upwards in a weak smile, flashing me your teeth. The straight row of bones that somehow shined, like how your scalp did from the most recent chemo treatment. When your eyes met my red rimmed ones, realisation shone through, and you unclenched your fist.
I had wrapped both my hands around your cold one, and that was when I decided that it was time I did something for you. You had asked, your voice raspy and weak, if I was sure, and I had replied with a sturdy yes, because I knew I had to be strong: strong for the both of us, and strong enough to survive without you.
You made me promise that I'd let go as soon as you were gone, that I'd never think about you, that I'd live my life to the fullest, that I'd act as if you were nothing more than one of my many imaginary friends. You made me promise you the impossible, but I agreed because I knew that you would never let go otherwise. I made you promise the same too, even though I never wanted you to forget me. I was being selfish and stupid, but it didn't matter to me then. All I could think about was you, and life without you in it.
I kept one promise. I stayed with you while you were lying on that bed, all through the two days it took for you to give up on your life. All through the two days where you were asleep, where you were telling yourself that you wouldn't need to wake up because I was no longer begging you to fight, to continue to suffer. And when the heart monitor displayed a flat line, and all the nurses and Dr. Red began rushing in, I released my hand from your loose grip, and then pressed my lips to yours for the final time.
I stood in the doorway, watching as the nurses and doctor did all that they could to bring you back to life. I watched as your parents cried from the bedside, and I looked up to the ceiling. This one thing, I didn't have to wonder about because I knew for sure: You were up there, looking down on all of us. You were finally free. Free from the sufferings of this world. Free from the deadly cells that flowed through your veins. Free from the bondage of having to live life with such precaution.
It was terribly inappropriate, but I smiled in the knowledge that you were finally free from the cords and tubes that once prevented you from leaving us peacefully. I stepped to the side as the clamor in your ward was brought forth to the hallway, and feeling something on my face, I reached up to brush it off. My fingertips came into contact with a wet cheek and it was then I realised: I had been crying.
Isn't it ironic that the two people everyone could never picture apart were separated by an illness that science still has no cure to? I guess, in some sense, that this was the fairness of life. While some spent their whole lives looking for that someone, I always had you by my side, and those sixteen years we spent together, from diapers to jeans, held so much more happiness than some had in their entire lives.
I love you. I often hear couples saying it. We've never said it. Maybe it was because we were both too immature to swallow our pride and admit it, but I guess we both knew that we didn’t have to say it out loud because what we had was love. And we knew that.
And now, fifty-three years later, I'm finally ready. Fifty-three years later, I lay here on my bed knowing that I am finally joining you.
I've taken everything that I kept out, not for reasons I previously stated, but for the very opposite. I've taken them out to keep my promise to you. I've taken them out so that I can, once and for all, let go. And that's what I'm doing. With my grip slowly loosening, with every item that falls to the floor, I'm letting go. Letting go of my past so that I can embrace the future. A future with you.
No, that would be a lie. I remember too much. Too much that it sometimes hurts, and I find myself pushing memories of us out of my head. I know it shouldn't hurt. I know that everything, the final decision, it was mutual. And part of me understands. It knows and accepts everything. But the other part, the other part just can't comprehend that you're no longer mine, that you're gone, and that we will never be where we once stood.
I've kept everything: the letters, the photos we took, every single gift. I know I should've thrown them out, or given them away at least. I know that you wouldn't want me lingering in the past. I know that I promised you, like you had promised me, that we'd both move on because it just wasn't right. But sometimes, the past just holds something much more dear to me, and I can't help but to reminiscence.
There were times, moments in my life when everything was too much for me to handle. When problems suffocated me. I'd run straight to the park, to the spot under the big tree with the red leaves- our spot. The markings from when we once foolishly threw darts at the trunk of the tree are still there, and I sometimes wonder if what we had is kind of like that; deep enough to hurt, but strong enough to last even though it's been abandoned.
I sometimes see couples sitting on the same spot, and I wonder if that was what we looked like to everyone else who cared enough to notice us. I wonder if we had made passers by who had just broken up disgusted and jealous with our carelessness and disregard to the rest of the world. Because we knew that all we really needed was each other.
It's true; what we had was special. It was rare, and so full. And back then, I used to think that that was flawless and complete. But now, after all this time, I've come to realise that sometimes, special is just a kinder word used to replace tragic. That being rare simply meant others knew, and looked at us with sympathy.
I've visited you in your new home made of stone and I wondered if you had seen me. That was another promise I had to break, and I'm sorry. Sorry I couldn't be stronger. Sorry I had to disappoint.
I'm pretty sure I dreamt about you last night because I woke up with tears and a recollection of our time together. Some memories were vague, while some others were fresh. The one memory, however, that stung with clarity is the very memory you and I would have loved to forget- our last day together.
My tears this morning were uncontrollable when I remembered the sight I had once grown familiar to; several tubes plugged into you, and the bleached walls of your room; the ward that, it seemed, they saved just for you at the hospital. Your eyes were closed when I arrived, and your face the epitome of serenity. That was the moment, the very second that I realised all these years, I had been nothing but selfish.
You woke up a few seconds later, and when your eyes adjusted, your lips curved upwards in a weak smile, flashing me your teeth. The straight row of bones that somehow shined, like how your scalp did from the most recent chemo treatment. When your eyes met my red rimmed ones, realisation shone through, and you unclenched your fist.
I had wrapped both my hands around your cold one, and that was when I decided that it was time I did something for you. You had asked, your voice raspy and weak, if I was sure, and I had replied with a sturdy yes, because I knew I had to be strong: strong for the both of us, and strong enough to survive without you.
You made me promise that I'd let go as soon as you were gone, that I'd never think about you, that I'd live my life to the fullest, that I'd act as if you were nothing more than one of my many imaginary friends. You made me promise you the impossible, but I agreed because I knew that you would never let go otherwise. I made you promise the same too, even though I never wanted you to forget me. I was being selfish and stupid, but it didn't matter to me then. All I could think about was you, and life without you in it.
I kept one promise. I stayed with you while you were lying on that bed, all through the two days it took for you to give up on your life. All through the two days where you were asleep, where you were telling yourself that you wouldn't need to wake up because I was no longer begging you to fight, to continue to suffer. And when the heart monitor displayed a flat line, and all the nurses and Dr. Red began rushing in, I released my hand from your loose grip, and then pressed my lips to yours for the final time.
I stood in the doorway, watching as the nurses and doctor did all that they could to bring you back to life. I watched as your parents cried from the bedside, and I looked up to the ceiling. This one thing, I didn't have to wonder about because I knew for sure: You were up there, looking down on all of us. You were finally free. Free from the sufferings of this world. Free from the deadly cells that flowed through your veins. Free from the bondage of having to live life with such precaution.
It was terribly inappropriate, but I smiled in the knowledge that you were finally free from the cords and tubes that once prevented you from leaving us peacefully. I stepped to the side as the clamor in your ward was brought forth to the hallway, and feeling something on my face, I reached up to brush it off. My fingertips came into contact with a wet cheek and it was then I realised: I had been crying.
Isn't it ironic that the two people everyone could never picture apart were separated by an illness that science still has no cure to? I guess, in some sense, that this was the fairness of life. While some spent their whole lives looking for that someone, I always had you by my side, and those sixteen years we spent together, from diapers to jeans, held so much more happiness than some had in their entire lives.
I love you. I often hear couples saying it. We've never said it. Maybe it was because we were both too immature to swallow our pride and admit it, but I guess we both knew that we didn’t have to say it out loud because what we had was love. And we knew that.
And now, fifty-three years later, I'm finally ready. Fifty-three years later, I lay here on my bed knowing that I am finally joining you.
I've taken everything that I kept out, not for reasons I previously stated, but for the very opposite. I've taken them out to keep my promise to you. I've taken them out so that I can, once and for all, let go. And that's what I'm doing. With my grip slowly loosening, with every item that falls to the floor, I'm letting go. Letting go of my past so that I can embrace the future. A future with you.