The Last in the Series of Missives

Dear Australia,

It is done.

I can’t describe my feelings, not properly, not with any sort of justice or eloquence.

I miss her. The ache stabs. It burns. It wrings and gouges and shreds. The void has too much power.

My mind flashes memories of our walking the city streets, her dodging cafe umbrellas while I walk under them with plenty of clearance. Our standing at intersections, watching her eyes, intent as sentinels, on the traffic, so I, too, would know when to cross.

My mind reaches back to our first meeting, in November 2004, where she stood somewhat aloof while an old friend and I caught up. We explored Midtown that day in the pouring rain.

One time I called her while babysitting for a family in my ward, close to five years ago. We talked of fast friendship, and maybe Star Trek. We laughed.

Movies, music, massages, mail returns. City strolls and subway stunts and Serendipity and award-winning cinema. Rats and road trips, and simply rejoicing in each other’s company.

Tears and turmoil. Laughter, love.

I was there when she began falling in love. I knew it would run its course, and I know the course has not yet ended. It has only begun.

She’s married, five days now, going on forever.

In Australia.

You, Barry: I blame you.

I want her back. I need her back. I need her smiling eyes and steady presence and her gentle voice to reassure me. I need to exchange knowing smirks, as I look up and she looks down, of our juxtaposed heights and the seeming paradox of the not-so-well-kept secret that we are, undoubtedly, the very, very best of friends.

That’s why she let me win at miniature golf. That’s why I don’t make fun of her anymore for mistaking Bono for Bon Jovi. That’s why the individual time we spent together back in September and October, before I up and left, I treasure beyond anything in this world. That’s why the chasm in my chest pushes so relentlessly against the rest of my heart. I just can’t stand being away. And now, so very far away.