With two cats in the bedroom, I open my closet on the morning of my 40th birthday and take the box of memories he left me with from the hiding place I gave them too many years ago. I bring it to my bed, where a black trash bag is waiting.

I make my way to the closet where the box lies beneath a pile of sweaters, and I stare, like cemetery grass that covers the remains of our loved ones, gently placed six feet below us. Tears. Peace. Anger. Relief. And all the emotions that come with death–inches before me.

But not all death begins with the ending of a heartbeat. The death of love cruelly reminds us of the unfulfilled beats of new memories we were promised. “You said forever,” I murmur.

I make my way through the sweaters and see the red lid covering the Tupperware storage box; a faded notecard with the lyrics of our song scrawled from a tearful pen, years ago: “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing.”

I still can’t listen to Aerosmith.

There’s a white shirt with specks of blue that I accidentally ripped when the buttons no longer fit through their holes. Once upon a time, it was beautiful. I place it in the bag.

There’s a blue striped tie; I run my fingers across the vertical stripes of the silk, still so soft and warm–alive beneath the caress of my fingers. Unworn. Each time I stood in front of the mirror to tie it, it choked me. I throw it in the bag.

There’s a packet of unopened gum that I squeeze, remembering the smell of it wafting from his mouth when he crooned our secret love songs, jokes, kisses into my ears. I can’t smell it. I can’t hear it. I can’t feel it any longer. I can no longer feel him.

There’s a teddy bear, innocent and sweet, filled with such promise of being loved.  “I’m sorry to do this,” I whisper as I gently place him in the bag, covering him with the shirt to keep him warm.

There’s a reason we bury our dead.

I save the cards for last.

“I love you.”

“Happy 29th Birthday.”

“Always…”

 The words blur from the tears I have not let fall for years and years. I sealed that dam at 30, and again at 32, and again at 35, and again at 39. Again and again and again. How many tears can a heart lose before it can no longer see the sky is still blue? There has been enough time for tears. I shred them in half without malice, but release, as I press them into the bag with a silent goodbye.

You taught me to love. You taught me how to accept white roses and baskets of cheese fries over games of footsie. You taught me to sing in public on our first date, to see if I could match pitch; after all, you were a music teacher. You taught me to dance and how to lead, and made me accept that I was beautiful. You would accept no less. But you didn’t teach me how to see danger. You didn’t teach me to take the mirror from your hands and see my own reflection unfiltered, not blurred into yours, where the very essence of my being became entwined with yours. You didn’t teach me to spot the rusty side of the anchor that I clung to for so long. You taught me how to hurt. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I knot the bag tightly.

 I have enough memories spilled in dark bars over Vodka rocks to patient strangers just looking for their own peace. I’ve shouted you into the blue, green, and violent riptides of Lake Michigan nights of blackness, and returned in the morning to curl up in the warmth of the sand and lie like any other sunbather aching to crawl back in the womb where I couldn’t be burnt and shuttered my eyes until my sky was gone. You took my sky.

Like a pallbearer saying a final goodbye, I make my way to the alley dumpster and place the bag, with love, before slamming it shut, and the Heavens open, flooding me with peace and light and an audible release of the heaviness my shoulders carried for eleven long years.

I look to the bright blue of the sky, and I breathe. All I hear is the sound of my breath, clean and untethered.

 I take a shower and scrub really well, towel dry my hair, put some molding wax in, moisturize my face, and put on my new polo shirt to meet my family for my 40th birthday dinner. I look in my bedroom mirror, and nothing is quite different, but there’s hope. I turn off the light and can’t help but smile as I head into the blue light of summer and a shimmering sunset sky. 

---

Jonathan Michael Saucedo is a Chicago-based writer, actor, and educator whose work explores chronic illness, disability, and LGBTQ+ love through lyrical prose, personal essays, and multimedia storytelling. He holds an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University and a BA in Theatre and Secondary Education from Loyola University Chicago. His projects include the chapbook “A Silent Love Letter” and “Unfolding Hope,” a Substack publication and visual podcast. His work lives at the intersection of resilience, vulnerability, and voice. You can find more at jonathanmichaelsaucedo.com and  https://substack.com/@jonathanmichaelsaucedo.