A year ago this week,* my closest friend left.
It's a long story that got a little longer last month, when he had the bad luck to send me a sort of apology, which may have been legitimately welcome, except it arrived during a suicidal week when I was in a terrible state. It was an unfortunate coincidence of timing; I'm not proud of what I wrote back, though I suspect he's long past caring. Still, I meant the heart of what I said: that I'm willing to listen if he ever wants to say goodbye for real, and that I'll always care for him.
Maybe he didn't send it as a conscience jerry-rig; maybe he meant it deeply, and it was a difficult and considered thing for him to write. He always hated that kind of letter; I copyedited several for him over the many years. But I'll likely never know.
I'll leave it at what will always be true about him: my beautiful, painful, clever, sorcerer boy: I'm sorry I'm not sorry. You were, and will always be, worth it.
*I mentioned my knack for assigning significance to dates in a different context to Isaac a few weeks ago, and he shot back "It's that part of your personality that refuses to let go of the past; it's the worst part of you as a person." Aw, well, fair. I hate it too. I especially hate that this particular one lines up with my mom's birthday. But that's what it is. I am who I am, worst of worst.
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