It's That Time of Night
When I miss you most.
With my mouth full of black licorice, that I already know I will eat more and too many of, I sit down to talk to you because it’s that time of night.
When I miss you most.
I always knew when we were in the middle of it, doing it, sending silly posts on Instagram and being on the app at the same time because as we joke-not-really-a-joke joked that we were addicted to the app, the PING! would ping mid-scrolling, and I would race to pop a “hi!” GIF, usually of a rabbit popping out of a hole, and then you would GIF back another “hi!”, usually with a GIF that was not the rabbit - always something even cuter; I always knew that one day, we wouldn’t.
But when we were doing it, we’d start chit-chatting (or text-chatting as the case would be), and it’d either be a few simple back and forths or you typing:
* moves to text *
That meant we were spilling some real tea. Tea you never wanted Instagram to see. Did you know something I didn’t about privacy on social media, or was it unneeded and silly, the platform transferring of our messages? It doesn’t matter.
(Unnecessary update: There were fewer pieces of black licorice in the bag1 than I anticipated. I should stop here and be fulfilled, but want to get up and open the other bag. I always have another bag of black licorice in the cupboard. I know I’ll always want more of what I love and purchase accordingly.)
I always knew, at a certain point anyway, it would never last; that one night, I would get my last Instagram DM from you, and the thought of this burst my heart into a million feelings. Most of the million feelings happy (that the messages were happening), but the rest of the feelings devastatingly sad (because we both knew the reality of what was happening). The messages, generally around 11 PM-ish, were like my digital version of being tucked into bed. The messages were a friendly reminder that somewhere 1,843 miles away, someone whom I loved was thinking about me, checking in on me, and, someone you loved was thinking about you, checking in on you. Each message a spoonful of favorited flavor of ice cream, a delicious treat savored one after another, knowing with each savoring one day, too soon, the carton would be emptied.
Since you’ve been gone, I’m a bit of a different person from when you last knew me. Everything that happened and where you chose to go changed me.
(Unnecessary update: I got up and got more black licorice. I already know my stomach will regret this.)
I wish I could show up for you then as I am now.
That simple sentence is overflowing with regret. I want to go back. Make you better, or at least laugh and maybe nap on the couch together. Fly in to see you for no reason.
Why was I not saying the things I was feeling around what we both knew was happening2 ? I’ve opened my big mouth before to friends. Some of them never spoke to me again. Some of them grew ever closer.
Why was I trying to be so respectful and not barging through your front door to take care of you? I’ve taken care of people before. Some of them are also dead. Some of them are still living.
You are dead, and I am alive. Little could be more unfair.
So tonight, I sit in the night of a night I imagined back then, when you wouldn’t be here to DM me. How is tonight here? How is it you are not DM’ing me? Oh yes:
You are dead, and I am alive. Little could be more unfair.
With most message sets, you had the sweetest sign-off promising our souls would meet shortly on the astral plane while our bodies slept in the comfort of our beds; you were even kind enough to give me directions.
To find beauty in the missing and make it sting less, I think of how wonderful it is that I will forever get to meet you in my dreams at the streetlight on the corner, where you now live.
And tomorrow, if granted to me, I will go to the store since I now don’t have a backup bag of black licorice because amid all my changes, I still, even more, want more of the things in my life that I love.
A terminal Cancer.
Two of our songs: