October 3, 2024

When you call, you’ll say it’s been a while, in that soft voice of yours, and I’ll laugh, nodding in agreement, asking where all the time has gone.

I’ll say, when you last saw me, I wasn’t doing so well—but I am now, and I want you to know that. I’ll tell you that I know you meant well when you left; I don’t carry resentment in my heart.

The house we built together is still standing. When was the last time you visited? The porch still has your favorite throw pillows on the wicker chair. I haven’t been too good at brushing the leaves off, but your favorite mug is still there, right where you left it. I’ll say that I know you moved out, but somehow, I still haven’t filled your side of the closet. I’ll point and say, here and here—these were your favorite spots to read in the sun. Do you remember? I’ve added new books to the shelves, but there’s still space for yours.

I’ll say that I know you didn’t have time to say goodbye and that I forgive you. The water was rising, and you just needed to cross before drowning.

When you call, I’ll say I’ve learned to stand on my own two feet—aren’t you proud of that? Sometimes I move through these rooms without music; your voice still lives in the walls, and I want to remember it.

I’ll say that, as silly as it sounds, when you came into my life, it felt like seeing a shooting star. You’ll call me by my Vietnamese name and say I’ve always been a little dramatic. I tell you that, in another life, we might have been each other’s constants. You—the sun on my shoulders, and me—the moon that rises every night for you.

When you call, I’ll ask if you’re coming home this time. I’ll say I can start the kettle and we can put on our favorite shows if you’d like. I left the porchlights on for you, so you don’t miss a step.

When you call, I’ll pick up and say we can start over again. Maybe this time, we’ll get it right.