Do You Remember?

“Do you remember how we met? It was in Miami and the rainy season was starting to kick off. I had dressed up to meet a friend, a boy I had liked. I was a young girl and the world was so big, so I was looking for love to fill in the empty space. Something else, not exactly a shining prince and definitely not a dark hero, stumbled into Cold Stone, drenched and sopping wet. I don’t remember a lot of the details, but I remember an outlandishly iridescent floral shirt, as if neon colored flamingo had gotten drunk and lost after a night out in an Evergreens bar. I didn’t say that you looked like a flamingo, but the boy did. And you smiled, as if the season’s announcers received an urgent report and broke the rain to announce the sun. You had a nice smile. Have a smile. But I never told you that.

Do you remember when you asked me out? We both chose UCLA and stumbled into each other at EE BIOL 160, and you invited me to your church. My feelings for you were only just germinating, like a little radicle popping out of a seed. After that mass, you dipped your fingers into the stoup and gently caressed a triangle on my forehead with the water. You told me you had something to give me, and led me to your car. You said ‘close your eyes’ and when I opened them, there was Teddy. I cried. You panicked and didn’t seem to know what to do with your hands, but you hugged me, and after I had stopped sniffling, you asked me, stumbling over the words like a drunk flamingo. When you drove me home, I was so happy, and my heart was a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. But I never told you that.

Do you remember the first time you received me at the airport? It was the first time we had been apart for so long, and I was so excited. Well, I was tired because I had just come from that interview in San Francisco, and I was a bit worried and stressed. So when I saw you through the sliding doors, I was worried that you’d think I wasn’t happy to see you. I stopped behind a column, and practiced my smile a bit, untangling my hair. When you saw me, you waved, and when I lugged my check-in closer, you unzipped your jacket and revealed a pinwheel. It was so random, the curls alternating between joy and warmth, and I laughed, laughed at the way everything aligned and the way my shoulders fit between yours. You could always make me laugh. But I never told you that. 

Do you remember when I first said the three binding words? The three binding words. That’s what you called them. You had already spoken them and in the same breath, told me that you weren’t expecting me to say them so soon, and that you’d be willing to wait. I just nodded. Nodded! How could I just nod? I thought, sometimes, that I dated you because you could speak the words I struggled to say. You break out into poetry as naturally as a teenager breaks out in pimples, could easily say the sweetest words to end the stormiest argument. I could never do that. Words get tangled up in me, delayed like a car in Los Angeles rush hour, so that by the time they arrive at my lips, the moment has whooshed passed. I try to remember them, my words, so I can use them to sweep you, swooning, off your feet, just like you always have. There were so many things I would have said, if I had known. But I never told you that.

Do you remember when we watched La La Land for your birthday? You went in hesitant, and I laughed at the brave face you put on, because you were blindfolded and didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know when I booked the tickets ahead of time, but the movie was singalong. We were both thrown off by the lyrics in the opening act, but you started singing, belting the lyrics out like you were trying to drown out the theater surround sound. You loved the movie, but Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone didn’t end up together, and I felt a sudden fear swell in me. ‘Please don’t break up with me’, I said, anxiously. ‘You silly Teddy, flamingos stay together for life!’ you said confidently, with a smile that was outshined only by the glare of your floral shirt and a conviction of an oracle. You were wrong, you know. Flamingoes don’t stay together for life; I just looked it up. But you weren’t a flamingo, and whenever I needed you, you were always there. But I never told you that.

Do you remember, perhaps two years later, when my mother passed away? I had no one else in the world, and the future was so dark, and I was so afraid. You took me into your arms and cradled me softly, cooing and kissing my hair, and then you started singing. I hadn’t heard you sing so softly before, and you later told me you didn’t know where it came from. You weren’t in tune, and your voice cracked and popped like the small fireworks we lit in that cul-de-sac that one July 4th night. You sang “Can’t Help Falling In Love”, a song so...different from your usual EDM. I had never listened to Elvis Presly before, but that night, you painted the chorus to the beat of our hearts. I already said the three binding words, but at that moment, I knew that I’d love you forever. But I never told you that,” I thought. 

“Thank you for everything,” I said. “You have a nice smile. You made me so happy. You could always make me laugh. There are so many things I would have liked to say. And thank you...for always being there. I’ll love you forever. Goodbye.”