My Summer of Soul

As I ascend the rickety stairs, I can’t help but remember my countless days spent here with you. My hands stroke the chipped railing and with every splinter, every woodchip comes another memory of six summers ago, or as I like to call it, The Summer of Soul. I shift my eyes downward and rake my gaze up along the stairs one at a time, my eyes traversing the stairs before my feet even reach the top. I pause at the 12th step, noticing the inscribed writing “If you weren't around, I'd probably be someplace way the hell off. In the woods or some goddamn place. You're the only reason I'm around, practically.” A quote from our favorite book, Catcher always spoke to us like no other and I’m glad I still share that with you, even if you are not here with me.

My feet won’t let me keep moving and when I reach the top, I have to force myself to reach my arms out and push the swinging door open. With the opening door comes a gust of wind. A gust of your wind. I quickly turn around and seal the door shut, so as not to let any of your precious air escape. My head tilts upwards and I shut my eyes, letting your aroma surround me like a comforter in a cold room, and blinking the tears from my eyes, I adjust my gaze and take it in. 

Everything is as we left it. Your sweatshirt sits in the far back corner where you left it that unseasonably cool August night and there is a sheet draped over the back window from the evening we decided to project ‘The Shining,’ I made you hold my hand the entire time, even when I wasn’t scared. Our failed attempt at crocheting sits, rejected, on a table pressed against the right wall. It was laughable really and I remember it, clear as day. You wanted a new hobby and I wanted to do whatever would make you smile so we decided to find our passion crocheting. Needless to say, the minute I picked up those needles, it felt like I was being taught a new language. You laughed at my pitiful attempts to even crochet a simple square, but hearing your windchime of a laugh made the whole thing worth it. 

The bright afternoon sunlight streams in through the sheet and I walk over to the window to take it down, and a slip of paper falls to the ground. I shift my eyes to the paper and instantly recognize your loopy handwriting that the teachers always fell in love with. You told me once that you had devoted an entire week to perfect your handwriting. You said you would practice day and night until you finally unlocked the secret, “it’s all in the way you hold the pencil, Olivia.” I begged you to show me how you did it but you always said that your handwriting was your thing and I never understood. 

I kneel down to pick up the paper and my breath instantly hitches in my throat when I notice the first line, “My dearest Olivia,” Just seeing my name scrawled out on the paper in your big, loopy script is enough to make me fall in love all over again. Before I even realize I am crying, my tears start spotting the page and I have to hold the paper out, for fear that my crying eyes will ruin your beautiful writing. 

My dearest Olivia, 

I will miss you terribly when I am gone. A dead person cannot “miss” but I assume you understand what I mean. Olivia, I am sorry. You deserve more than this, more than “I’m sorry,” more than my broken body could ever give you. I will miss seeing your hair glow in the treehouse when the sunlight streams through the opened windows. I will miss your hands in mine whilst we watch scary movies. I know how much they always scared you, but you wanted to train yourself to be able to handle them. I think you started to get there when we watched ‘The Shining.’ I long to see your face again, and again, and again, and again, and for forever, but alas, I cannot. I long to hear your voice as you pluck the ukulele and sing the songs you made up on the spot. Keep singing, keep laughing, keep reading. My copy of ‘the Catcher in the Rye’ is under the loose floorboard along with my favorite shirt and some photographs, I want you to have it all. I love you, Olivia. 

Sing me to sleep, 

-Graham

I gingerly place the letter on the table before I collapse to the ground. My breaths come in quick succession of each other. I hug my knees to my chest and let myself go. Tears stain the uneven floors and with each gasp, I hurt more. I thought I had accepted that you were gone, years ago but seeing your writing, touching your letters, I can hear your raspy voice whispering the words to me, and everything comes rushing back.  

By the time I unfold my body from the ground, the sun begins to set and the sky is painted in glistening pinks and oranges, your favorite color combo. I tiptoe over to the loose floorboard and out of instinct I run my fingers across the wall, feeling the dents in the wood where we carved our names, “Oli & G,” which kicks off another round of heaving and tears. 

I reach the floorboard and remove it carefully, not wanting to harm whatever lays beneath, not wanting to harm what I have left of you. I swipe the hair from my eyes and survey the space underneath the floor. You are true to your words and sure enough, there is a battered copy of ‘the Catcher in the Rye,’ your blue flannel, and four polaroids. I remove everything from the space and press the shirt up to my face, breathing in your scent. It is always the same: lavender mixed with mint and a hint of that before-it-rains smell. I take two deep breaths of your smell before putting the shirt back underneath the floor, in order to lock up your air for the next time I need you. I take the book and the polaroids, which I promise to myself I will look at tomorrow. The photos on my phone seem so far away, but with tangible polaroids, it feels like you are here with me and I just can’t look at them yet. I place the four photos in my back pocket, tuck the letter in the front cover of the book, and begin to flip through the pages. 

Your love for this book is apparent in the countless annotations. The back cover is beginning to tear and I think that if I look at your writing for one second longer, I might not be able to leave. Closing the book, I move towards the door, granting myself one last look at our favorite hideaway. Everything is in its right place and as the sky begins to darken, I open the door and walk out. I miss you.