Nails On A ChalkBoard
A Short Goodbye To You
That maybe, somehow, she’ll be there again, even if I don’t deserve it.
She always invited me to her family's house for Christmas. I missed three in a row—fire season, work, whatever the hell else was going on. There was always something. She’d be at home waiting for me, even when I didn’t want to be there. Sitting in her apartment, I just felt like I didn’t fit. The bunks, hell, even the back of my car felt like home more than her place, not because of anything she did. She had gone to university, lived in DC, then New York City, what did I have? Being homeless if I didn’t do this job because I refused to be a no body again, the stupid job made me feel like a someone like I was helping. Ashamed of how little I had to show for so much hard work maybe, maybe that was it.
I loved her—god, I loved her—but the fucked up thing was I couldn’t wait for fire season to roll around again.
We used to talk about buying a house, starting a family, building a life together. I chose the easier path. She told me it was killing me, told me I had to choose—her or the job I had fell in love with in my 20s that was eating away at me. I chose wrong, I chose wrong Julia.
Now here I am, alone. I chased after that brotherhood, that feeling of being part of something, and let go of the life I could’ve had. Let go of her.
I still hear her voice sometimes, especially when I’m out in the woods or driving home from interviews with crews. I remember her saying, “I was raised by the Tri-State area.” The way she loved The Sopranos, her big bushy eyebrows, the way her voice sounded when she woke up early to work those east coast hours, and how safe she made me feel. I’d joke and say her voice was nails on a chalk board and she’d call me a fool for it, but now I watch old videos of her to just hear it. I honestly don’t know why I’m writing this, why I’m spilling my guts. She won’t ever read this, and I’d never tell her I wrote it. But I guess it’s all been sitting on me. She saw me at my worst, still loved me, and when I started spiraling, I couldn’t bring myself to let her in any deeper. I knew I was dragging her down.
Now every house I pass with a porch, I picture her sitting there reading the New Yorker, waiting for me. I see a life that’s gone now, could’ve been, but I was too selfish to see it. She’d ask me, “Why do you punish yourself like this?”And I never had a damn answer. I romanticized this job, and now I can’t even imagine doing anything else. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her. I think about calling her every damn day, telling her she was right, I was wrong, that I maybe we could pick up where we left off, with that life with her—but I cant. It’s too late. She’ll find happiness with someone else, and she’ll have the life we could’ve had, and I’ll just have to live with that. I’m gonna grow old without her, and that serves me right because I knew deep down I should’ve been working a dweeb office job if it meant having a life with her. But at least I loved her. Even for a little while, it felt like the sun shined on me and everything was going to be alright.
Damn, I’ll miss her forever. But I’m hangin’ on to a little hope this isn’t the end—that maybe, somehow, she’ll be there again, even though I don’t deserve it.
So real. Such a hard pill to swallow. Thank you for sharing
Beautiful as always.