Checked into heaven
We had planned this day. None of us had the hindsight to check the forecast, but it was all going to be okay. The sand was soft at least, and there was something comforting in knowing it was already not a perfect day. On occasions we forgot things, but there was something reassuring in knowing that we were at the beach that specific day. We would certainly remember it.
I had my shirt off. I wanted to show off my new swimsuit. I got chills all over me, and I think I got sick a couple days after, but I lied down on my stomach in a sort of way that modestly showed me off. I tried to read, and you attempted to try. I got three or four pages in, but you kept bugging me, saying things like “Damn, It’s cold!” and “I love you” and “You’re so darling when you read” and we would laugh it off and I would reply with things like “I love you too”.
You never opened your book, and I never finished mine. Four years later, I’m still on the page where Henri and Paula host dinner. I used to tell you, “A half-read book is a half-finished love affair”. I think I heard that for the first time in some movie, but I couldn’t tell you which, and I never say it anymore anyways.
I don’t remember what you looked like that afternoon. I could tell you what the ocean smelt like, and the noise, and the cold water rushing beneath my feet, following others’ steps along the shore till the waves would wash them away, but for the life of me I can’t remember how your hair curled or if I was even paying attention to you.
I took photos of course, that I used to carry it with me everywhere, but I never found time to go develop them. I think I lost the roles, or accidentally threw them away during one of my moves. It never took up much space at all, and I had no trouble carrying it with me that day, but I guess these things disappear before you remember to look for them.
We walked along the beach for a long time. I walked on the side where the water met the sand, and you talked,
You: This is what it would feel like, for me,
Me: What would feel like this?
You: Heaven!
In some silly void, I told you that heaven was a place on Earth with you. I remember, and you laughed.
You: No, I mean it.
You: This is what I envision ‘heaven’ to be. With you or my mom or God, I would be walking on soft sand like this and there would be no end and instead of strangers it would be people I know and dogs I’ve met and I wouldn’t be so goddamn cold, and I wouldn’t ever get tired. It would be so many dogs just running around. I don’t know what heaven is like – I mean, I don’t even know if God or any of it is real, but I know it would be like this. You know? It’s just this feeling.
I didn’t know. So I kept walking with my feet ankle deep in the water.
***
You used to write me letters about God too. For instance a couple summers ago, right after you moved to London, you wrote me this massive letter jumping from music to work to longing to anime. It was just a general‐kind of ‘hello!’ letter, but in the end of it, you confessed:
I don’t mean to depress you, but sometimes I wish I had someone like you but I wish you were on the same search as me. Nobody does anymore. Everyone is too scared to commit to something as big as God. I wish you were curious too. Maybe you are and you just don’t tell me about it. But I think a lot of people secretly desire it but then they hide it from all their hipster friends. It’s frustrating. Anyways, help me find God. If you went to church just once it wouldn’t matter to me, but if you had faith, it would. But don’t let me decide those things for you.
Sometimes I blame you for asking those questions to me, but most of the times I don’t. Most of the times I don’t think of you anymore. I try not to question myself on it too much, but now and then I would be reading the news or I would be in the shower and I wonder about God, and I wonder about you. I wished I had written back to you and told you that I was. And that heaven to me has since looked like dogs running around that beach.
To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much of that day besides the things I’ve already written about. I really wish I hadn’t lost those photos. A part of me thinks that holding them in my hand, something would fall into place and make me remember everything.
The dead crab shells scattered on the sand.
The sun spots on your glasses.
You: Tell me what’s on your mind.
You: It’s just me.
You: I know.
I wonder if you remember.
Maybe I will write to you.
Maybe I will send you this story.