Matt Greene

Missing her has a voice of shadow.

A language, spoken by only two people in human history, forever lost. Nuance and structure and cadence crafted over twenty years. Inside jokes and nonverbal accents. Incongruous definitions. A rhythm of speech dependent upon both the unspoken pauses and the words themselves. A lifetime of meaning and shared experience is suddenly a dead language.

Sometimes, this hole in his life feels like his most defining characteristic. It touches every part of him; every moment of his day.

He says ‘good morning’ to no one, suddenly—now acutely aware that greeting the day with someone else had become a deeply spiritual and engrained practice. This seemingly small excision, two words among multitudes, removes all sense of consent from his daily life. Where once they stood together and welcomed the coming light of day and its attendant experiences, he now stands alone as each day washes over him, unbidden and unwelcome.

Missing her has mass.

He feels it, pressing upon him with every step and breath. It is there before he opens his eyes in the morning and it crushes him to sleep each night; the constant and paradoxical pressure of absence. He had never realized how light his life had been with her; how buoyant.

Missing her has edges.

They are sharp and sudden, most of the time. Catching and cutting him in moments unexpected. Paralyzed in the kitchen, pawing through the silverware, needing a spoon—torn quite suddenly by the realization that he always made sure to leave her the spoon she claimed was her favorite (this habit had formed instantly, years ago, as the result of a late night conversation over iced cream, huddled together. Sharing the container but not implements. A single moment around which he had adjusted his behavior forever after).

At other times, these edges are soft and slow, and somehow infinitely more cruel. He is not caught unaware, for instance, by the empty space beside him in their bed. Yet the pain grows in complexity when he realizes that he misses both the heat of her body next to him as well as the theft of his own heat by her somehow always ice-bound feet. He finds himself alone, forever not wincing at her playful, icy touch.

Her absence is the largest presence in his life.