There Is Truth, But No Logic

I want you to know that it's hard. It's hard to feel like I'm being completely honest when I tell people that "I'm okay" in response to their asking how I am. The truth is that, although I am okay for the most part, there are still many hard moments to crawl through. The truth is that I can't stop thinking about you.

I want you to know that I am reminded everywhere I go. When I go for walks by myself down King Street I think about that night that you stumbled your way to the hospital, crying to me over your cellphone. I see the restaurants we ate at, the benches that I sat on, taking a rest on the way home from the psychiatric ward when I went to visit you. I pass the Dairy Queen sometimes and remember the time Jackson came to pick us up and we went for ice cream even though it was kind of chilly that night. Then I remember that Jackson isn't my friend anymore. None of your friends are my friends anymore and though I'd like to think that they still like me, the truth is that I can't.

I want you to know that I have to give tours of Ottawa as a part of my job and I can't believe the luck that makes me walk the same streets that we walked on two Valentine's Days ago. I tell the kids all about how the Rideau Canal was built, but when I see it, it's not the history or Colonel John By that comes to mind, it's the memories of how we held hands the entire way, skating all 15.6 frozen kilometers of it. We have free time for lunch in Byward Market and I roam the shops by myself - I see the tea place where you bought elderberry tea, the Lebonese restaurant where we ate, the gallery that we browsed. The art that we touched is still there after two years.

The truth is that I can't escape you - you are everywhere that I call home. In Toronto I walked past that mirrored wall where I made us stop to take a photo even though we were already late for the symphony. This is the street we walked down on our 'first date', and over that way is the Hummingbird Center where we watched The Nutcracker for the last two Christmases. In Markham I see the Indian restaurant we used to frequent, and I drove by your street today. I sleep on the new yellow bedsheets my mother bought me and I can't help but think how convenient it was that she got them right after we broke up - I think she was trying to protect my heart.

The truth is, when I was in St. Jacobs the other day, I tried to protect my heart too. I didn't go to the places we went on our anniversary and I purposely didn't let my gaze linger when I saw a brochure for the bed and breakfast that we stayed at. But the one thing I did do was pick up a jar of elderberry jam. I know it's rare, it's not sold in grocery stores, and that you really love it. I picked it up and held it in my hand for a really long time, debating whether or not I should buy it and drop it off in your mailbox. I almost did. I didn't for more reasons than I can explain, one being that I didn't need something else to remind myself of you. I think that happens enough as it is.

This restaurant, that hotel, this street, that cafe, this store, that theater. I am surrounded. I randomly walked into a used bookstore a few weeks ago and it felt eerily familiar. I realized soon that we had been there before and you had bought a book on children's literature. I am angry at myself for remembering these things because they are so trivial now and so disarming that I lose all composure when I am randomly visited by memory at these strange hours. Why can't I forget?

If you're reading this, I want you to know that there is elderberry jam for sale at the St. Jacobs Market. And if you're not, maybe somebody else will tell you.
11:12 pm