Searching

If I had known that the memories were going to have to last this long, I would've paid more attention. If I had known that I’d still be trying to grasp at any fading ember of you thirty years later, I would’ve tried harder. I would've noticed the exact color of your eyes beneath your mop of teenage angst hair. I would've memorized the exact timbre of your voice. I would've remembered, exactly, at least one of the things you said that made me laugh and replayed it in my head until it was indelible. But since I didn't know that the memories were going to have to last this long, maybe forever, all I really remember is the feelings; the laughter, the comfort, the preciousness of being with someone who didn't make me feel wrong at the age when I always felt like I was wrong. I mean, it's nice to remember those feelings, but without something less nebulous to hang onto, it's hard to grasp any reality in it. 

The dreams don't make it any easier, though I'm always relieved that they aren't nightmares. I wake up, feeling completely comforted and safe and realize that the dream placed me in your arms. I, indulgently, try to get back to sleep, into the dream, just to recapture that feeling, but it never works. Instead, I'm awake, wondering again where you are and what happened to you and how you could've just disappeared.

I know it seems like this is a sad, sappy love story now, but it isn't. I never really thought I loved you. I never would've said that. But I did adore you. And I guess my dreams still do adore you, wherever you are, if you still are. 

I've tried looking for you. The dreams will erupt you into my mind after months or even years of not thinking about you and I'll be on the hunt again. Once I thought I had found you in a court report and my stomach sank as I read about someone with your name being convicted of raping a minor. The minutes I spent saying "No, no, no," at my computer screen felt like an eternity. When I finally found the age of the person on the report, it was, thankfully, several years different than yours. The relief made everything drain out of me and I gave up looking, lingering fear planted inside me that I just might find something that would destroy my vision of you.

Then another dream. There you were again and this time, I knew I would find you. And I did.  I found you in the army. My stomach sank, once again, as I read that you had died in Iraq. I saw that the age matched and my brain started to construct your life in the military. Likely urged to join by your family who always thought you needed straightening out, and then finding that easy competence with it that you found with everything, even though you tried to hide that. But after more digging, the family was not your family, so another moment of relief washed over me. Maybe you weren’t dead. That’s all I had. 

This cycle has happened so often. The dream. The search. The rush of finding you. The horror in my head at what has happened to you. And then the whoosh of relief that who I found wasn't you. And every time the cycle finishes, I know that I am back to square one, no closer to finding you. And then I have to check back out, the emotional tailspin making me know that I’m not ready to find out something horrible if there is something horrible to find out.

Years after these failed searches, I tried again and thought I had figured out the mystery. I thought that you had transitioned and were now a woman. I could make that make sense too. Not that you ever seemed all that feminine to me, but you had this little obsession with destruction, yuh know? I could see how someone who didn't feel right in their own skin might just want to destroy some things or at least really fuck some things up and see what was left afterward. The person I found was similarly in love with fire, if their photos meant anything, and if I crossed my eyes in just the right way, I could see you in her face. I could imagine the family being conservative enough that you may not exist to them anymore as your new self and at least that would explain why no one would ever speak of you. 

But, in the end, I found that she was actually your cousin. At least the resemblance made sense. I sent her a message asking after you, but she never responded. At least the non-response was familiar after previous attempts at asking other family members, even from the ones that I knew slightly more. 

With nothing else to go on, I dove into every one of her pictures and any picture that I could find of her friends that might be members of your very large, confusing family. 

And finally, at last. I've found a couple of pictures. I'm sure it’s you. They are from five and more years ago, but at least I feel like I know you are alive somewhere. I've examined the pictures so many times, looking for clues of you. Are you happy? Or are you, at least, ok? 

There's a hint of separateness in the pictures that seems so familiar, it affirms to me that it’s you.  The pictures where you're forced to pose with other family members, you look uneasy, like you feel like you don't quite belong. In the one picture where you are sitting apart, clearly having your own moment until the picture taker drew your attention, you seem more comfortable. But maybe I'm just putting my memories of sixteen year old you onto your grown self. I can't actually get much from these posed, family pictures, but I am happy to know you are alive and still forced into family functions, even if it still makes your skin crawl.

As I look at them again for the 300th time, I think you look like a guy who is more comfortable outside than inside. Maybe like you've been through a bit of shit. But you're in those pictures, still you, so hopefully surviving the inevitable shit of life. And still looking a little lonely. Maybe it's just alone, and not lonely. It’s hard to say. And if we were actually talking, I’d know if it was loneliness and if it wasn’t, we would both know that alone might be alright. I hope it’s alright. I hope you are alright.

The sad reality of it all is that I'll likely give up again. Partially because it probably doesn't really matter. You're alive. We've obviously both lived a whole bunch of our lives without having contact and that's been okay. And partially because I'm still apprehensive about what I would find out, even though I'm glad that you're not one of the others that I found who share your name. Why does there seem to be a veil of secrecy around you? No one in the family even wanting to confirm that you're okay and living wherever. It still makes me nervous about the answers.

So, the trepidation and the pointlessness will settle me back into inertia and I’ll give up again. I'll get on with life and let everything else push you out of the forefront of my mind. Until the next dream comes. And then I'll remember. I'll be back at the beginning with it all again. I'll remember your weirdness that I loved and the easiness of being with you. I'll remember your remarkable and disgusting artwork that would make my head spin around admiration at your skill and revulsion at the ghoulish works. I'll remember your awkward charm and the feeling of being safe and protected with you just by your very nature. I'll remember that something was lost when our letters trickled to a stop. And I'll remember, again, that I adore you.