May we meet again.
I’m not much of an afterlife type. But when someone close to you dies young, you do what you must to get up each day. Even if what you must is text him.
“Come back,” I texted Rakan last winter, after he’d been gone three months. “This is some extreme BS.”
At six months, around what would have been his birthday: “I hope you’re okay wherever you are and that they have lots of dogs there and Punjabi flicks there. Are you? Do they? Can you let me know somehow?”
At ten months: “Doing a bit better, but it is sooooo lonelyyyyy without you. Also I don’t know how to not cuddle and sleep at night or cook good maggi.”
It’s cathartic to send these missives into the digital ether. A nice complement to all the scream-crying I do into my pillow. Seeing that blank box on my phone buoys me with the irrational hope that Rakan will get my messages and the even more irrational hope that he’ll respond.
The walls of our room was adorned by his watercolor paintings. I always felt that his watercolor paintings expressed a feeling I didn’t have words for. Something like a blend of nostalgia, tragedy, and hope, as portrayed by gentle, flowing arcs of color.
One fine autumn evening, when the leaves were almost red and falling, Rakan walked in after work and handed me a package.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a painting. I wanted to give it to on your birthday, but I think it’s better if you take it now.”
Dismissing the fact that my birthday was still months after and the quiet fact that I loved surprises, I tore open the wrapping. The painting was of a boy and a girl sitting on a park bench; one of them in color, the other in black and white. They were wrapped in winter coats and thick scarves, marveling at a light winter snow.
In the bottom-right corner, he had written the date and a title.
“K & M”
I looked at that painting for a long, long time.
Our evening continued when Rakan brought out evening paper. We’d read and then swap sections. I spread mine across the floor. Mondays were special. Those were the days of Supreme Court decisions, which he explained with relish. At dinner, we played word games. Rakan’s favorite was Geography (He was a geography aficionado, and I, in love) where each player names a place — a city, state, country, or continent — that begins with the last letter of the place named by the previous player. I frequently scoured the atlas to find places that ended with X, or V, or Z — I’d discovered Essex, Kiev, and the Hejaz at very young age — to stump Rakan. He tricked me into learning the world.
We would end the evening with Jazz and some liquids to loosen the tongue and talk about the worldly affairs. Truth be told, he used to do most of the talking and I would do some of the listening.
We talked about music, and drinks, and life in general. We rode a conversation down a river of rum and gin tonics, and let silences fill with the talk of others on the radio — old men with their books, old women with their heartbreak.
My grief counselor suggested writing letters to Rakan. Writing letters to the dearly departed helps bring the heartache to the fore. Intentional grieving, the professionals call it.
The first year after Rakan left, I maintained a running dialogue with him in my head most waking moments. I also talked to him aloud. Like when I was home alone. Or driving. Or walking the dog. Or at the grocery store. Or the bank. Or school.
To the casual observer, I probably looked like every other schmuck yammering away on a private call in public, if every other schmuck were openly weeping.
I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me. Only if I had more time.
I have no trouble picking up a pen and scrawling in my journal about the tangle of heartache, guilt, and regret I feel over Rakan going away for good. But writing by hand to him feels forced, stilted, like a homework assignment I’m only doing to pass the class.
After multiple efforts, I had to face it: When it came to communicating with him, the handwritten letter just wasn’t my medium. It wasn’t how we corresponded in life. It feels unnatural to do so now. But texting him is a different story. It’s more immediate, intrinsic, the daily shorthand we used when he was there.
My text message history with Rakan offers a tidy log of our life together. Questions about our social calendar. Reminders to pick up some grocery item or other. Photos of something terrible and adorable the dog next door. An endless stream of eggplant and peach emojis. All the I love yous.
When I text Rakan now, I know I won’t see the three bouncing dots that indicate he’s typing back. But each time I hit “send,” time halts for an instant, even reverses itself. There’s a brief suspension of reality, the promise of a quick reply before he leaves work for the day, the booming hello when he walks through our front door in the evening.
One especially grim night I sat sobbing, dripping snot all over his side of the bed, wailing about the unfairness of it all, how alone I felt without him, how I didn’t want to feel this distraught forever — wasn’t there some way he could help me? I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on with the presence of his absence. Maybe I was just waiting for a coronary to happen.
An hour passed. Maybe three. Exhausted and badly in need of tissues, I made my way to the dining table, where I’d left my phone. One new text message. A blank. The sender: Unknown. The contents: Message not found.
I typed a reply but it bounced back. Error Invalid Number. I tried calling the mystery texter, but my call could not be completed as dialed. I tried over and over. Nothing.
Probably just a technical glitch, I thought, despite having never received a phantom text in my life. But part of me wondered whether Rakan had somehow sensed my despair and reached out to console me. Like I said, you tell yourself what you need to.
It’s been years since Rakan died. I still text him on occasion, knowing I won’t get a reply. Even so, I keep my eyes on my phone after hitting “send.” Just for a couple of seconds. Just in case.
I sometimes think about that stilted evening, and the years that passed before Rakan and I separated; when I wanted to kiss him on his forehead, tie his crown, protect him from bullies on the school bus and hold him, and not let go.
I think about that bar where I sit and contemplate life and its frivolities, and the bartender who hides behind his doors the stories of those who visit — the ghosts and spirits who might never find what they’re looking for, but find in the bar a comfortable purgatory.
And when I think of him, I think of a painting of two kids sitting on a park bench in winter; one of them in color, one in black and white.
And now with you gone, I wonder which is me.
Author’s note:
May God rest his soul and have mercy on mine.
That is the funny thing about fate. I had so much fun breaking down all those walls of yours. And now I get to do them all over again.
