Never Gave Me a Reason

One

I’m sitting in the back of the taxi, headphones in and forehead against the window. Letting the cold seep into my forehead as the music fills the silence, I close my eyes. I’m trying to remember if I had grabbed my mother’s present from my desk, or if I was going to have to buy a back up gift when I arrived in Denver, again. How many airport ornaments could I give her before she stopped letting me in the door? The answer was that there was no limit, but by now she should have known how terrible of a child I was. I should have been able to remember her gift the one time a year I visited home. But it appears I failed this year too.

Two

My phone rings which causes me to open my eyes. It’s your sister, she still calls to tell me Merry Christmas. She always told me that I was her favorite sibling, and I would laugh as you pretended to be offended. Now that I am no longer around, are you her favorite again? I plan on letting the call go to voicemail. I will call her back. Later. Probably. Maybe not. This year it feels harder to fake being nice and cheery, and there is that added layer of awkwardness of talking to anyone in your family. But maybe it's harder now because it’s been a year now since I last saw you? Maybe it’s because I never really liked the holidays, and now I don’t have anyone to fake it for. 

Three

The phone continues to ring, cutting off my music. Outside the taxi, the Christmas lights glisten. They shine in red, blue, green, pink, white, and golden hues. I tried to remember when that rainbow last made me happy as a kid. Running outside as the snow fell. Laughing with the neighborhood kids as we made snowmen. My nose running from the cold as I came inside to warm up with peppermint hot cocoa with Mom and Dad. All of that truly feels like another lifetime ago. 

Right now I see kids sprinting on the sidewalk with their parents, pulling them along to see the Christmas lights in front of the busy store fronts. My Christmases were spent out in the country, next to a Christmas tree farm. These kids celebrated in the concrete jungle, their holidays spent in the loudest city in the world. Maybe it was poetic that I went back to the same home I had as a kid every year for Christmas. Or maybe I was forever chasing fleeting memories. 

Four

The taxi comes to a halt as pedestrians cross the road. I check the time, if the traffic doesn’t clear up soon I am going to be late for my flight. I am reminded of another time when I was late to the airport. Your birthday. I was flying back from a business trip, nothing had gone right that day. Most of all, I ended up missing my flight. Missing your birthday. I left you waiting in the hallway, with your friends and a birthday cake in hand. Candles unlit and a stack of presents on the table, except the one from me. The fallout as I called you back when I finally had the chance to, how you told me about the party while trying not to cry. I should have been there. I’m sorry. 

My phone is still ringing, your sister calling me like she had when it was obvious I wasn’t going to make it to the party. She had been furious. How many times had she called me? I remember I had at least 20 very loud voicemails from her. I give up, I hit the decline button. I wait for her to call again, but it looks like she will only call me once this time.

Five

My phone beeps as I see a voicemail from her. Persistent, she is. I will listen to it later. And I will call her back. Maybe. I know if you were here you would laugh at me, tell me stop being antisocial. You would tell me that it’s polite to answer phone calls, especially around the holidays. But you always secretly enjoyed my social awkwardness. I am still haunted with the knowledge of what you find funny. 

I still know your favorite color, your favorite food, favorite book, favorite kind of car. How you liked to drink warm apple cider when you were upset and would go feed the ducks when you were angry. You were the hardest person to get to go to bed, your creative mind coming alive at night. But when you finally went to sleep you were the hardest person to wake up in the morning, tricking me into staying in bed longer by pulling me closer to you. 

Where do you put all of this knowledge when it's over? 

Six

I am now one hundred percent sure I did not grab my mother’s present. It’s fine, it wasn’t that good of a gift anyway. Maybe I can just ship it to her for her birthday next year. You were much better at picking out gifts for her. She knew it was you, but she would thank us both anyway. I added “stop by random airport kiosk” to my to-do list. 

I thought about the smile she would give me as I walked into the door. How she would have a cup of eggnog ready for me in my favorite mug. The orange one with the chip in the handle. I smile as I think about when the chip happened. The first time you visited home with me, we had gone downstairs after she went to bed. We mixed bourbon with our eggnog, which slowly turned into just drinking bourbon. 

We got way too drunk, you spilled your bourbon out of the orange mug. I had let you use it that year. I said something stupid, I don’t remember. You laughed and dropped the mug. It hit the ground with a thud, and we waited for my mom to run downstairs to see what the noise was. When we realized she wasn’t coming, we fell to the ground in drunken laughter. You scrambled to pick up the mug, distraught when you saw the little chip in the handle. I told you it was okay, that it made it more special. 

Maybe I would ask for a different mug this year. 

Seven

The taxi finally pulls forward, and I am on my way again. I go through my packing list in my head, making sure I packed everything else. I think I may have forgotten to pack socks and my toothbrush. I shrug, Mom usually had extras waiting for me because she knows how forgetful I am. I tried not to think about the fact that I was using the suitcase you got me for my last birthday, but of course I am thinking about it now. It didn’t make sense to buy a new one, it was a good set you bought me. And I hadn’t used it yet. It’s just a suitcase. 

It’s just the last gift I have from you. 

Eight 

We pass 8th Ave, and I see our favorite restaurant. It’s packed on this chilly Saturday. I wonder if you are there now, taking someone else to taste their amazing cuisine. But of course you’re not there. I know you well enough that you haven’t stepped foot in that restaurant since the last time we were there and probably would never go back. Neither will I. 

But a part of me wants to jump out of this taxi, sit down at our table and talk to you. I want to laugh with you and forget about what happened last winter. Forget about the ring in my fingers, you shaking your head and telling me to put it away. My face dropping into my hands as you told me you couldn't say yes.

You never gave me a reason, did you?

Nine

I have a headache now, so I turn off the music. I am suddenly struck by the realization that as long as I am in this city, I will always think of you. Part of me wants to always think of you. To always hold on to the love that slipped away, grasping the tiny threads between my fingers before it’s all gone.

But the truth is, it’s gone. And has been for awhile. Doesn’t mean you don’t still live in my head, but the reality of you has vanished. Everywhere I go, you’re there. This city has your name on every street, as far as I am concerned. Maybe I need to move, a new place to start over. But then I would truly never see you. This may be a big city, but it’s a small world.

I keep hoping eventually I’ll run into you.

Ten

I think that’s why I see you now. As the taxi crosses the intersection, I notice the headlights of another car coming at us. But I don’t really see the car coming. I don’t hear the driver yelling an obscenity, or the screech of the car that ran the red light trying to stop. I don’t hear the gasps or screams of the people on the sidewalks. I hear your laugh. I see you smiling, the corners of your eyes crinkling. Your cheeks rosy, eyes a little droopy. Just like they were the night we drank bourbon while laying on my mom’s kitchen floor.  

I see the mug fall to the ground, and it cracks at the same moment the window in front of my face shatters. 

As I feel the metal and glass hit my skin, all I can see is your face.