When you ask for an ending, it will be given to you.
I clearly remember that night, three weeks and twenty-some-odd pages ago when I wrote “Tell me the end of you and I.”
When you ask for an ending, you will not be denied.
The end came. In one sentence. In 20 letters, caps lock, bold type. (Can you believe a little thing like that can hold something as big as goodbye?)
“YOU JUST LOST ME FOREVER”
That was it. The end of you and I. But did any of us really think it would be the end of the writing nights? Did I really dare to think that those twenty letters spelling out a four letter word named loss would really soak our story out of the ink in my mind?
Tonight, I am not using my pen to hide the sting of that sentence. I am choosing to use it to tell the truth. My truth about the weight of those five words which flashed across my screen after I prayed for an end to you and I.
If I have lost you, truly and forever, then there are things I have lost which I will be missing. Like the time I lost my first tooth and as I felt the gap with my tongue I was struck by the feeling that I would never be the same again, because I knew now what it was to find emptiness where wholeness used to sit. Like that, I will miss the special kind of friendship we shared. Like that, I will miss your hands which held my own and dried my tears and wrote love letters to me and cooked with me in my kitchen. The hands of yours that shook my fathers’. That hugged my mother. That drew on sidewalks and built houses out of Leggos with mine. And there’s more. So much more that my heart has lost in this strange thing you are calling the forever loss of you.
But I said at the start of this that I would tell my truth, and so I have to say that if I have lost you forever, then there are things I will not be looking to find again. If I see your temper in the lost-and-found box of this life I will leave it there unclaimed. I will be leaving your pushy attitude, your insecurities, your way of getting absolutely everything exactly and only the way you want it. I will not be hoping to find these, and the other unprintable parts of you again in this process of the loss and the moving on from the losing of you.
Lost. Such a strange word you chose to tell me you were finished. As if I forgot you on a desk in an old high school somewhere along with my half-finished apple left from lunch.
Lost. You said I’d lost you. Maybe what you meant to say was that you thought I would be lost without you. Perhaps you still wish it were true. But once again, in being bound to tell my truth, I have to say that I believe the person who is really lost in all this “forever” and “losing”… is you.
-Jessi Sanders 2012