Letters Between Sundays

The instant excitement of knowing you’re waiting for me on Sunday mornings, waiting for me to jump into bed and seep into your body heat. The slow mornings of being tangled underneath the covers, collecting the love from each other’s hearts.

The excitement I feel knowing you’re waiting for me disappears when walking through my bedroom doorway and the bed is perfectly made, knowing no one has slept here since yesterday. Walking past the bed, deliberately ignoring it, having to think, it wasn’t me who made it, and the person who did is coming back.

The day starts to move, lifting each leg out of the cement to take another one. The first time in the day where something innocent makes me smile ear to ear, immediately reaching for my phone, having you on speed dial.

“We’re sorry, the person you’re calling is not available.”

The cement thickens.

Living in an apartment that was made for two, replaying the memories in the walls when I smell the WoodWick candle lit on the entryway table. The depressing but yet comforting thought that your shadows are everywhere I go, but no limbs casting darkness in the Lego aisle of the store.

Every emotional heartburn, you were always there neutralizing the stomach acid. Looking for the treatment for the pain, realizing you’re out of stock, hoping I have a refill soon.

Knowing there’s a special occasion happening soon, and already having it planned out four months in advance, just for it to be canceled. Returning the items of deflated helium balloons and ripped wrapping paper, and a filled-out card with no room to spare.

It’s the start of fall, when the trees begin to change colors. Reminiscing on memories we haven’t even made yet. Bundling each other up with scarves and traditions, knowing we’ll do this every fall. Picking out pumpkins that are similar to our head shape, laughing and bringing light to the gloomy autumn day.

Coming home with tacky decorations, hanging each piece up with thankfulness. Wrapping ourselves as one on the couch with matching pajamas and watching a memory that hasn’t happened yet fade away into the stagnant living room air.

Deciding what couple we want to dress up as for the scariest night of the year. Trying to be people who could never compare with our love. Knowing I’ll have to dress as my inner self, the scariest monster of them all.

Walking into the kitchen with hot cider in our matching mugs we painted in Traverse City, chaotically trying to balance two Thanksgivings while making room for our own blueberry pie, sitting there untouched, knife by its side waiting to be cut.

The academic milestone reaching the moment of victory, having the reward saved in a memory drive waiting to be opened. Knowing a celebration couldn’t be complete without the flame of the candle.

The first snowfall appears, waking up to a shimmery glow, planning a day of being our childish selves. Tying snow boots and keeping the tradition of bundling each other up with scarves and dreams. Catching the interaction between our snow angels, fully aware of what we’re naive to.

Rushing down the sled hill, holding onto each other. Looking back and noticing I have a one-person sled, and the two-person seat is at the top of the hill, waiting for the unison couple to retrieve it.

Cold red button nose and shivering bodies getting warm under the covers, the fire in their chests that yearns for the other is unthawing the memories that are still frozen. Ready to be played when unthawed.

Turning 23, becoming an adult takes time, but I will forever be childlike in your eyes. Innocent, naive, wide-eyed little girl. Feeling the safety in our closeness but the uncertainty from the distance.

Having hopeful eyes when looking in the crowd, hoping to see you before blowing out my birthday candles. Knowing if this memory quickly unthaws, your hand would be on my thigh, taking pictures of the candle being blown out. The safety of you being close.

We change the ghost decorations into the wonderful time of the year. Heading to a shop to find the Christmas tree that fits with our identity as a whole, taking it home and throwing tinsel on a dead tree. Grasping at the memory that hasn’t even happened yet.

Will missing tomorrow ever stop? Mourning the memories we’ve made for our future selves, not knowing if they will ever happen. Knowing this time belongs to us, and the year we had, these memories would be our gift.

Already having the memory of us ransacking the stores, trying to find the perfect gifts for one another, calculating what family has us first on Christmas Day.

Christmas Eve would be all to ourselves, knowing one day what this night would mean for us.

Yearning on the memories we almost had.

Christmas passes, with all the planned memories, future memories that have been untouched.

One full year, and it’s time to open the time capsule, filled with memories that already happened. Knowing this is the one day I don’t have to make up.

Being partners while playing pool, not knowing who each other were. Being very intrigued by the other person’s stare. Cheating at the game, keeping secrets from others when we haven’t even shared secrets of our own selves.

The memory of sitting on the steps, thinking, What will next year bring me? Not knowing that the person who is giving me their full attention would soon be it.

That night changed the course of the future, holding onto the memory of being at the same place and the same time.

Four a.m., and we’re in a stranger’s bed, communicating with each other like we’ve spent years apart. Not knowing we burned our skin onto each other, spending each day of the new year inseparable. Not knowing the misery and pain of ripping the skin away from each other halfway through.

Waking up in the new year, wrapped in each other’s skin and bones like we’ve had this memory before. Knowing I wanted you for the new year.

Trusting you with the heart I gave you. Letting you do anything to it because it was yours and no one else’s.

This is the only memory that exists in missing tomorrow, the only memory I have of what’s to come. Knowing that night will either destroy me or create it all over again with you.

I miss tomorrow, but what’s real is yesterday.

Knowing this year is coming to an end, filled with memories we’ve created and yearned for, and coming home on New Year’s Day to an unmade bed.