02/23/23

I’m sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a friend. It smells like French fries and ketchup, a combo you could never get enough of. I can’t see them, but their scent indicates the perfect level of crispiness, the kind we’d fight over during that magical time when food wasn’t a war zone.

You loved restaurants. It’s why I’ve avoided them, but tonight, the warm glow of the fake candles and the fragments of animated conversation and the clatter of waiters rushing out with piping hot dishes, it comforts me.

I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to this, being tongue-tied around you.

Lately, I’ve seen a lot of plays that deal with religion. They made me think of your friends, the intensely spiritual ones, who claim you’re happy where you are now. That you’re even more powerful there than you were here. That you’re at peace.

At first, I was so angry I wanted to spit. If they were right, if you really were happier on whatever the other side is, then that felt like the cruelest rebuke. Because that meant we failed at our only job – making your life special. That, despite our best efforts, we had let you down. I took it as a personal affront, and hoped to a different God it wasn’t true.

But now, I hope it is. I hope you’re happy, Mom. I hope you feel free, and that the joy that evades me shines in you.

All the bullshit that bogged you down here, that bogs me down, I hope you’re rid of it.

Everyone at this restaurant thinks I’ve been stood up, and I should care, I should be humiliated, but every minute that my friend is late means another minute with you.

I’ve been neglecting you since I returned to New York, but it’s harder to find you here, harder to think, harder to come up with a more specific, compelling thought other than ‘I’m sad’. This city wasn’t built for grieving. It has a 10-second memory, and it’s impatient, and every day I spend here reminds me of how badly you wanted to leave.

You were fantasizing about moving to Austin and I panicked, worried that meant difficulty and discomfort for our family, wondering whether I should join you because I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out what life looked like without you a short walk away.

I wish you had moved to Austin. I wish that’s what had happened instead. I can see it now – you and Gloria sitting in the sunshine, bookshelves littered with titles you’d devoured, Dad visiting on weekends, the three of us FaceTiming. It’s an alternate universe and it’s so beautiful I can’t believe it ever scared me. 

My friend’s almost here, and even though he’s an hour late, I’m disappointed. I wanted more time.

That could be the title of all of life.

More time. If only.