Waiting for Liz

ForewordWe should write a book. In retrospect, I know it probably wasn’t you who said it. It had to have been me. Of course, I would have wanted it to have been you because it would’ve been so unexpectedly romantic. “About what?” you (probably) asked. “About us. Our story. You know, I write a chapter, you write a chapter—from our own perspectives.” “I’m not sure you’d like my perspective.” You smiled. I wasn’t entirely sure you were joking. You kissed me. (Or maybe you didn’t.) After a moment you said, “No one would believe it.” Do you remember? I do. Still. You have gone, so I am left to write it myself. You probably knew that I would someday. You have vanished now, leaving only the ghost of our long and complicated relationship. We haven’t spoken in over a decade. I have no idea where you are. I thought I knew some years ago but then heard a conflicting report from an old acquaintance. It doesn’t matter now, of course. Not really. I am still haunted. I wonder about you, whether you are happy, satisfied, fulfilled. I want those things for you; I always have. But mostly I wonder if you are haunted too. Do you hear my name sometimes? Do you see someone who looks like me but couldn’t possibly be me in that particular place at that particular time? Do you hear an old song on the radio and recall a pleasant memory…or an awful one? These things still happen to me. My life looks very different now. In so many ways, good ways, it remains the same. Did you know that I bought a house, got a master’s degree, published two novels, got married? I wanted to tell you these things and more when they actually happened, but we were so…finished. Lately, I have come to realize that maybe there really is a forever in that last goodbye. This was the only thing left for me to do. Part 1First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons—but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. —Carson McCullers