The truth is, we were never good at the big things. Anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas and New Years stood as comical reminders that we were brilliant at letting each other down. Today, I’m mourning the art of being let down.
I believe it was two years ago today, after a particularly staggering argument (the topic of which I no longer remember) that he threw a watch at me and said, “Happy fucking anniversary.” There is something beautiful about getting a watch as a present. As though that person is giving you the gift of time, or perhaps eternity. Somehow this is lost when it is hurled at your forehead.
Yet somehow, I find myself remembering the small things. How we could drift down rivers and never say a word. How his laugh, when it was real, resembled a 12-year-old girl’s. The way his hands felt when he held on for dear life.
There will be no presents today. No broken plans. Nothing to apologize for, and nothing to fight about.
So I guess I’ll give myself the gift of time. It isn’t trapped inside of a hurled watch anymore, but swirls around me. My butterflies dance amidst its breeze. Moving on is touchy, it trips on moments stuck in the past. I’m hurrying it along now. Remembering one good thing and a thousand bads.
Yes, we were never quite good at the big things.