Things have changed, and I’m no longer worrying about the future.
I used to worry about tomorrow every day. Now, I’m not.
I’m not worrying about the “big, life-altering” benchmark moments that everyone says will be the hardest. I thought I would be — and maybe I will be — but today I’m not.
Now, I worry about yesterday, and the day before that, and the seconds before that.
I didn’t realize how many memories I’ve already made without him. Which is weird because if you ask me what I’ve done in the last six months, I’d say, “nothing. Literally nothing.”
I’d say it’s been “same old stuff” — same job, same apartment, same types of weekends.
And I would mean it when i’d say it, because I really do feel that.
But then I started cleaning up my photo album today. All the pictures I’ve taken since the summer. And I was suddenly scrolling through hundreds of photos I hardly remember taking. Blurry moments in reality I caught crisply as they happened.
The weekend in Montauk with friends. The ballet with my mom and brother, dressed so nicely, hair and makeup done, just weeks after. Fireworks on the Fourth of July, trying out new neighborhood restaurants, my first time at the US Open and the new Whitney. Smiles and smiles. Walking through fall in Tompkins Square Park, exploring Philly.
The videos of family and friends that I now take obsessively to preserve the present no matter how obstructive — despite my brother’s pleas to “stop with the camera already!”
My need to document everything and everyone around me is simultaneously inflaming my greatest worry. I don’t want any new memories without him.
Today I wanted to delete the photos and the videos and unstack all the new moments. With every day is a new layer separating myself from his last memory and from my last memory of him.
I don’t want those memories shoved to the bottom. What happens in a year from now, in 10? Will all those memories be too far down?
I’ve never liked change, and have always been nostalgic about moments even as I live through them. But it’s suddenly different to think about memories that have no room to evolve.
Sometimes I think about my life in middle and high school and college — my first internships. I think about how different things were and how much I’ve grown. But what happens when you stop growing?
I would think, things will never be the same anymore. And they weren’t, and they’re not, but I’m adjusting. What happens when you stop adjusting?
I wish he was still growing and adjusting with me.
Still, I can’t stop documenting the new days and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of that feeling, the feeling that I’m not really feeling life right now. And that one day — another day, when maybe it’s not as hard as it was today — I’ll be able to look back and show myself that I was, and that I made it through.