here we are

I’d give anything for April 8th to be just another Monday, but that can’t be.

Today marks three years without Malorie Mondays where we would cook dinner and eat on the couch watching Gossip Girl. Three years without painting our nails in the floor of our apartment. Three years without knowing exactly what you were thinking at any moment.

Three years without you.

Three years later, and I still regularly find myself wanting to text you a random, inside joke.

Three years later, and you are still the first person I want to call when I’ve had the best day or the worst.

Three years later, and the missing you still catches me off guard and takes my breath away. Sometimes it’s involuntary, and I don’t even know that I’m doing it. Missing my very best friend. My soul sister. My other half.

I catch myself thinking that I was lucky.

That we never grew up and grew apart.

Lucky that we didn’t move on to our separate, grown up lives. Living worlds apart instead of a living room apart.

We never got the chance.

That’s the unlucky part.

Tonight I visited your high school for the first time.

I got to walk the halls you walked and sit in bleachers that were filled of people watching you dance during pep rallies.

This was your home, and I could feel the love radiate through a packed gym as they had one last pep rally for you.

This time it wasn’t for a softball playoff game or a trip to the regional tournament.

Tonight, they retired your softball jersey.

You are now part of a wall of fame. You were already a superstar, but it’s official now.

Your mom, dad, cheerleading coach, and several others bragged on you, and you even made the local newscast.

Of course, I would prefer a million nights of you not making the news. Of you living a safe and normal college life. Of you and I watching the news and our stories together. I’d prefer a million more nights for you.

But it’s like your daddy said tonight, where else would I rather you be? What better place than the right hand of our heavenly father?

See you on the other side, superstar.

My throat still closes up when I talk about you.

Tears pinch in the corners of my eyes, and I am immediately reliving every moment that led up to that point.  

I’m right back in our little apartment, opening the door to the worst news of my life.

Still wearing my pajamas.

Still in shock.  

Still not crying.

When that happens, my instincts tell me to slide down the wall and sit and close my eyes like I did that night.  

Lean up against the wall and forget and remember.

When I don’t talk, it’s not real.  

It never happened.  

I’m still the same girl.  

Nothing has changed.  

When I don’t talk, I can pretend that is the truth.  

But it’s a lie.

The paradox of talking.

Words slip out, and I can’t snatch them back.  

Can’t hold them right underneath my heart and keep them safe.  

Can’t pretend it isn’t real.  

Hearing my own words makes everything a reality.

Hurts and heals.

Talking about you takes my breath away.

Today cut through me like a knife.  

It was cool and windy and rainy, and those types of days were always ours.  

We would make our morning cinnamon bagels to the sound of raindrops hitting the window panes, dress for the day in our matching black zip-up jackets, and roll up our jeans to tuck into our black and white rain boots-yours, zebra; mine, floral.

Our day was spent looking for each other from beneath our umbrellas between classes.  Your eyes would meet mine across the campus, and you would grin, yelling, “Tortilla soup.  Let’s hit the grocery store after school,” over the sound of the rain.

From our very first rainy day in college to our last, without fail, we made your famous tortilla soup for dinner.  It was our ritual, comforting and warm and steady.  At first, we called your mom to get the recipe each time we made it, always forgetting the exact ingredients it called for.  By last spring, we knew it by heart and could throw it together in no time flat.

Even when I had to work late after class, I knew I would be hit with the spicy smell the minute I walked in the door.

We pulled on our cuddly pajamas, yanked sweatshirts over our heads, and settled in for a night of movies and homework, gossip and soup all set to a soundtrack featuring the rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops.

Today was the first day without you that it has been both cold and rainy, and it makes me miss you terribly.  All I wanted was to head back to our little apartment, heat up some soup, and stay up all night talking the storm away.

There’s only one problem.  I can’t remember the recipe.  You were always the keeper of that kind of information, and, for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on the ingredients.  

I need you here to ask, “Gosh, how many times have we made this?”

I need you here to tell all of my secrets to.  

I need you here.    

OVERWHELMED.

I’ve got that feeling right this minute.  

Really, I’ve had it all day.  

All week, even.  

Not only do I have a thesis proposal defense to plan and a conference presentation to plan, but I nearly fell apart today.

Today, I saw Taner, the guy that was driving the bike when you were killed.  

I was so thankful for the big, dark sunglasses that have become my signature accessory.

I couldn’t look at him.  

I couldn’t even stand the minute or less that it took to walk past him.

There he was, showing off his scars and pointing out everything that had been casted.  

It just made me sick.

I know it’s unhealthy for me to feel this way, but I can’t help it.

I just want to ask him if he knows what has been lost.  

If he really doesn’t care or if it’s all an act.  

If he’s just putting on a brave face like the rest of us.

Six months ago on Friday, I lost my very best friend/college roommate/soul mate in an awful motorcycle accident.  Malorie was 19.  She was on her boyfriend’s bike, and he lost control.  She flew off the bike and into a road sign.  She literally never knew what hit her.  And neither did we.  Her family didn’t even know that her boyfriend owned a motorcycle. What a terrible way for them to find out.  Words cannot express how difficult it is to come to grips with such an unexpected death.  

In an effort to bring about some good from this tragedy, a petition is being circulated for “Malorie’s Law.”  The law would mandate education for motorcycle owners and their passengers.  Hopefully, it will help prevent things like this from happening.  Over 1750 people have already signed.  The more signatures, the more likely it is to get attention from Texas legislators.  If any of you could help out, I would greatly appreciate it.  

Click here to read more about Malorie’s Law or here to like it on Facebook.  You can also print out copies of the petition to sign and mail to her parents.

Love you guys,

Kait

On the way home tonight, I cried and cried.  But it was more of a combination of crying mixed with a dark humor that had me giggling.  

Without you, Thursdays have been extremely painful for me.  If I forget it’s Thursday for even an hour or two, my heart or the pit of my stomach reminds me that it is still that painful anniversary. every. single. week.  

Today makes 18 Thursdays without you, my very, best friend.  I know it’s morbid to keep count, and it probably doesn’t help things much.  But, I have to.  

I know I’m not the one who should be paying penance for what happened, but someone has to.  Taner, whose bike you were on when you were flung from it and killed, your boyfriend at the time, has never called your parents to ask for forgiveness or reach out as they grieve.  No.  Instead, he has taken the cowardly way out.  He has cut off all contact with them.  I know that it is probably easier for him to live with himself this way, but it doesn’t make it easier for anyone else.  

We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.  We can go on living our lives, but they aren’t the same lives they were before.  We have been forever changed.  

Tonight, I remembered more than I meant to about that night four months ago.  The memories pinched my heart and the back of my throat.  I told the stories to Meredith, even though it hurt to let the words out.  

I know that sorrow is a selfish thing for someone who believes in Heaven.  But, I need to be selfish for a little while.  I need to cry, even if it’s just for me. 

I run across an old photo

and see your smile.

As the tears well up,

I am suddenly filled with warmth

and my heart only remembers love.

     I read a crumpled note

     you passed back-when,

    during a time of doubt and turmoil.

    The calming words written then

    still bring me peace

    and sooth my spirit.

    You always had

    a knack for that.

I remember who you used to be

the laughter we shared

and wonder what you are now.

    Maybe you are the bird outside my window

    singing a good morning song,

    or the ladybug that lights

    so carelessly on my shoulder,

    bringing luck for the day

    or the safe feeling

    that a warm bed offers

    on a stormy night

    or the lines of a song

    that holds me together

    when the day has been too much.

I miss your being

but I feel you everywhere,

in whichever form you take today,

whoever, whatever you now choose to be.

    Now is not the time for goodbye.

    I remember you.

    You are there in my dreams.

    You are here beside me

    and I will not be afraid

    of the days to come.

I wrote this for my literature class yesterday, but really, I wrote it for myself.  I just needed to do something and get out in the open what I had to say.  Miss you Mal.