petite victoire

I’d considered and reconsidered writing this post, since it is personal and people tend to like to judge the way people grieve (how they grieve, who gets to grieve, for how long, etc.) but at the end of the day I guess I just don’t really give a fuck. Also, I’d wager maybe only six people will end up reading this anyway. It’s mostly for me to document events in my life, because with the way my memory works I cannot remember solid linear events, I remember “concepts” and see my memories in short flash images. If someone tells a story I was involved in, I will remember it and feel a dopamine rush like a new map area has been unlocked, but it’s like I cannot access it myself. It’s very difficult for me to pull a story from my own library, and sometimes it’s distorted and buggy. It’s there, I just ain’t got the RAM to run it.

Anyway.

Dear Matt,

This morning I took a rock from my garden, a good sturdy rock the size of my fist. Then I took a picture of us from the good ol’ days out of my photo box (don’t worry, I have doubles) and I tied it to the rock with a blue satin ribbon. I drove down Indian Mounds Drive and parked just north of the Trestle Trail Bridge. I walked down to the edge of the river – I don’t know exactly where you made landfall for the last time but this particular spot felt correct – and I wound up hard and hurled that rock into the water. For some reason this felt like the best way to say goodbye to you. It was cinematic. It was extra. It was deeply poetic. You would have loved it. I don’t know what’s on the other side of all this, maybe nothing at all, but I hope there’s something. If there is, save me a spot at the lunch table, I’ll get there eventually.

xo
Marisa