Monday, December 15, 2003
I recall last hearing her girlish voice on the evening of the 15th day of December. When the phones were hanged that Sunday, I knew I’d need all the strength I could reunite. I laid down in my bed for a moment, wondering if that would in fact be the last time we’d ever talk. It needed to be the last time. That I knew, but I wasn’t sure we could do it. At the same time I felt that hearing that voice I loved would not do me any good. It’d only revive old wounds. Wounds that hadn’t yet healed. I had become the man who loved a girl who would not be his ever again. Something needed to be done, and was. That Sunday of a year ago remains to this day the last time she and I ever spoke.
In what is my way of saying goodbye to you, I serve myself another glass and I drink it wishing you well. This is the last glass, and then we must take our different paths. This last glass, perhaps sourer than any other I’ve ever drank, is for the sake of our now defunct endearment. One that will never be again. Our thing was so significant, and it had to come to its end. It’s as natural as life and death. This last glass is our goodbye, and may we fare well going our separate ways.
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