One of the earliest memories I have about wanting to write something is that of an ode. I wasn’t old enough to know it was called an ode, I would learn that much later after his death, but I know that the urge was always buried somewhere. For some reason, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get myself to write a poem — and so, an ode was a thing that seemed out of reach. A friend told me once, “It doesn’t really make a difference, you can write it however you want and just call it an ode,” and she was right. But the idea of writing a piece for someone, dedicating my words to them was always appealing.
One of the earliest memories I have of loss was after I lost a friend. He was someone I’d known for a long time and I moved to a different city — I was a child and we used to play together every day, but I don’t even remember his name now. I don’t even remember what kind of things we talked about. I just know the pain caused by his absence left a hole in my heart. This kind of pain is something that I did not know I would feel again until I came across it when he died.
One of the earliest memories I have of fear is when I was in school and I did not know the answer to a question on the board, and I felt scared that I was going to get scolded by the teacher. It was the most basic type of fear — of punishment — but there were other types too — such as abandonment, being left alone, losing someone you love — which I would learn later, after I lost him.
I have no memory of how he died. Some say it happened in an instant. Some say it took a long time, happening gradually over normal days that weren’t really normal, and hidden underneath this facade of an “ordinary lifestyle,” he grew so distant from me that I didn’t even notice he was gone? Why did I not notice when he left? Why was I oblivious? Why was I not there for him when he was on his sickbed? Why…
These questions would present themselves to me, and I would fight it out in my head, the battleground of all my problems, until you came around. You reminded me of him. No, not just reminded — you were him. Not were as in, to become, but you brought alive the parts of him that were buried in me somewhere. You brought alive his essence in me, and I became a vessel for him.
Every day when we have a conversation, you make it feel like he is not gone, that he is right here, sitting with us, listening, laughing. You make his absence feel more like a dulled presence, and that is the most anyone has ever been able to do for me, since him. He was special, you see. He saw me for who I was. Do you see me the same way?
For reminding me of him, here I write an ode to you. For reminding me of you, here I write an ode to him.
