Raining

I only remember the rain. It was pouring out as I ran after you.

"Stop!"

You turn around, stare at me, the rain hiding my tears. I clung to you, the scent of you as familiar to me as my own. A fresh woodsy scent, so strong.

So unlike you.

Sigh . . .

My friends knew you were coming, that I was going to see you. They warned me not to. They remember how it was . . . . before. When you broke that which I thought was unbreakable. When you caused me to fall to my knees, shaking, the grief too much. One girlfriend was the one who found me first as I hid in a bathroom, clutching the phone, head between my knees, rocking back and forth.

"I don't love you. I never did. It's over. It's over."

Once the initial shock wore off and I accepted that you were gone, I tried to get back to figuring out how to resume life without you in it. I found I couldn't, not as before. I changed too much because of you. Opened my mind too much; my heart; my soul. All too much.

I never played it safe with you, not from the first moment I saw you. It was a blind date, set up for Thanksgiving, neither of us having family to spend the holiday with. We made our plans and on that freezing cold November day, I heard a knock on a door and when I opened it, I fell in love.

Instantly.

We spent the whole  day together, driving around, talking and ended up at a bar. After a few beers, you played a song. 311. Whiskey and Wine.

And we danced with the glow of a fake fire behind us. Everything else disappeared in that moment. The laughter of the other bar patrons was silenced. It was just us, you and I.

It only took a few months for it to fall apart. A story too well known in my heart for me to retell again.

But you hurt me.

And regardless of that, or maybe because of it, I found myself holding onto you in the rain. I felt your hands in my hair, pulling me closer, saying you were sorry.

And I accepted.

And in spite of the wisdom of those looking on, I left with you.

You sat in the audience one last time to hear me tell jokes.

You kissed my forehead.

You held my hand.

Your eyes welled up when you said you loved me.

And I was right back where I was just a few months before.

You left the next morning and I heard nothing from you for months.

I grieved quieter the last time. I kept it deeper inside.

And you changed me. Completely.

I still haven't quite figured out how I feel about that.

I don't think of you as often anymore, only at certain times. When a random song plays on the radio or I drive nearby where you used to live. Or when someone else wants to get closer.

I found the book you bought me for Christmas the other day, next to the journal, also from you. I flipped the pages and allowed myself to feel sad. I read the journal and the words I wrote to you.

Did you ever know I was writing letters to you? One every single day? I still can't bear the thought of throwing them away. Not because I believe I'll ever see you again. I've grown too wise to ever allow that to happen. But because I do not want to forgot how completely I loved someone. I never want to forget that.

But right now, it's only because I want to make sure I never love someone that deeply. Not yet.

You didn't ruin me. Not completely anyway. I am happy now and more calm. I've let go of more of our memories, or at least the feelings attached to them. I've replaced romantic contemplation of who we were with stoic reflection based on the facts that most of what we were was based on lies.

Yet, you are still my greatest inspiration when I want to write. My muse. You are my sole focal point when I need to go inward and feel, deeply.

That is the one effect you had on me that I am the most grateful for: the way you opened me up, even if it caused me pain. I'll always be grateful for that.

And, honestly, I'd be a fool to regret having a season where I got to be a woman carefree, completely in love, with no holding back.

And I've already been a fool too much to allow it to happen again.