Sunday, October 12, 2014

Day 226: Fall And The Scent Of You

Images of fall on the campus of my university.

October 12, 2014

Dear Gareth,

It's funny what the change of seasons does in my mind where memories of you are stored. Here in Korea, fall is announcing itself in reds and golds and oranges against clear and crisp blue skies. For the first time in months my toes and fingers were noticeably chilly after an evening walk with my dog.

"Sorry, babe," I heard myself say. "I'll make sure to put some socks on before we go to bed." Sometimes I catch myself talking to you as though you were here. As though we were both living in the before.  Is this normal? I sure hope so.

My feet turn into two little blocks of ice from about mid-October until mid-March. You made it your job to keep them warm. To thaw them out. You'd rub them between your palms until I could feel the heat rise up to my ankles and then you'd trap the warmth in one of the many funny pairs of Korean socks you bought for me. I had nearly three dozen when you died. I kept a few and gifted the rest to friends back home.

My feet. These icy little feet.

This change in the temperature and this numbness in my fingers and toes brings to mind a whole host of you-related memories that I didn't realize were there. I should be prepared for this. The same thing happened at the hint of spring. In the heat of summer. Each season lights up different areas in my mind and without notice I am back there- in last spring, last summer, last fall- with you. With you rubbing my feet under the covers or in braver moments, offering the vast expanse of your warm back for me to slide my feet up next to.

One time, after a chilly hike on Jirisan, we sat in the car with the heat on full blast while you held my frozen fingers near your mouth and breathed your hot breath on them. You brought them under your shirt, and wincing only a bit, let them warm up near your armpits. "Oh, babe..." you kept saying. "Oh, babe. Oh, babe. Oh, babe."

You kept me warm.

And here the seemingly insignificant memories come. The time we were walking in Seoul and the night chill caused us to stop by an outdoor vendor and purchase matching gloves. Mine were grey with a dark green fingerless component over it. Yours were black and red. Same style. You joked that we finally had "couple outfits," although a month or so later you would present to me identical blue and white winter caps, each with a grey pompom on top. "But," you said firmly, "I'm only wearing mine with you in Hadong. Where no one can see us." I squealed and threw my arms around your neck. Matching hats. Hilariously romantic.

Chilly air. The navy travel blanket you surprised me with because you wanted to make sure I always had something with me in case I got chilly. In times when I forgot it, you offered your scarf- the large green checked wool one you bought in Saudi. I would wrap myself in that scarf and trap in the heat. I slept under that scarf in the few nights I waited for your parents outside of your hospital door. That scarf. I love that scarf.

Once, you had arranged and photographed our jackets, scarves... That green scarf.

Goofing around in a coffee shop. Us. With our scarves.
Chilly air. Out come the boots. The brown suede ones with the stitching that you loved so much. The tall chocolaty leather ones that are in need of some repair. Out comes the furry black slippers. The pink lamb hat that I wear indoors because it keep my head warm and makes me feel like I'm having a party. Do you remember when I bought that hat? We were in Busan, making our way past food stalls and tents full of all types of things no one really needs. Except that hat. I needed that hat. You kissed the top of my head when I put it on and told me I looked cute.

The sheep hat in Busan.
I loved my sheep hat and you loved your meat on a stick.

Chilly air. Out comes the black leather jacket I bought in Changwon the night of Thippy's birthday party. I left the bar where we were, needing a break from the smoke and the threat of the booze and I ducked into a shop and bought a leather jacket. When I returned, you got on stage and read a few poems you had written for me. Chilly air makes me think of my jacket and of that night.

You reading to me that night in Changwon.
And me taking it all in.
I miss you in this chill of autumn. I miss the warmth of your hands. Of your jacket. Of your voice.

Last night I was downtown and parted ways with friends at about 9:30. I walked down by the center stage and sat on a bench facing it for a bit. I wasn't quite ready to go home, nor did I feel like seeking people out. I sat and watched everything around me, like we used to do.

I hear in my head what you would have said. What outfits you would have pointed out. What jokes you would have made. I am carrying on a conversation for both of us because only one of us is still here. It's comforting. And it's exhausting. I don't want to supply your words. I want to hear them.

Downtown Daegu last night, in front of the main stage.
I saw the Body Shop ahead to the left and remembered the first time I came to Daegu, you had asked me to keep an eye out for a Body Shop so I could pick up a particular deodorant for you. This was he Body Shop I found and it was in this shop I held up the image on my phone of the deodorant you wanted and compared it to those lined up on the wall. I found it, and was giddy to return home with what you had requested.

I got up from the bench last night and walked past The Body Shop, briefly looking in the window. A few doors down I saw the Olive Young store where we ducked in to sniff all types of perfumes and colognes. You had really liked the CK One spray and when you weren't looking, I made a sneak purchase and gifted it to you moments later on the street. From then on you always smelled faintly of CK One. "Is this too much," you'd ask and invite me to sniff your neck, your chest, your wrists before we walked out of the door and after you'd misted yourself. You were cute.



Last night I walked into that same shop and scanned the cologne section for that familiar bottle. I picked up a little tester strip from a stainless steel container and held it up to the nozzle of the half-empty CK One bottle. One pump. Two pumps. Onto the little paper gripped my right thumb and forefinger. Little bits of the spray floated up and out and around me and there you were again. I closed my eyes and brought the strip to my nose and there you were again. I didn't cry. I didn't feel faint. I just took you in and finally placed the now CK One-scented strip in the "used" container.

I snaked through the aisles of the store looking at beauty products I had no interest in. I picked up and inspected a package of mascara. I considered the skin-tones of the foundation sample tray. I thought about buying the special dark chocolate wafers only sold in this store and decided against it. And I left.

A few blocks later, a reached up to scratch an itch on my nose and there you were, right on the fingertips of my right hand. CK One and warm skin. I stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and inhaled you there like I had breathed in the scent of you on your green scarf in the days and weeks after you died. I took in the scent of you.

And here in the window of a shop was a mannequin wearing a pressed white shirt, dark jeans, and a grey down vest. Remember how you were on an endless search for a vest like that in your size? You were particular about it. It had to be that grey. That material. With the blue and white pinstripes on the inside. Just like that. "Do you mind if we just stop in here for a minute, babe?" you'd say. "I just want to try that vest on." How many grey vests did you try on in my presence? You never did find one that fit you. "Damn, Korea," you'd say. "Why is everything so small?"

Close. But not quite it.
"That one's not going to fit you either, babe," I heard myself whisper as I stood outside of the shop window, eying the vest. It's true. It was too small. Here I am talking to you again as though you are right there with me.

I imagine the day will come when you're not the most present thing on my mind. And that will be ok. It's not even been 8 months since you died, so it seems everything natural that as I make my way through these first seasons- the first of everything without you- that I'd be thinking of you quite a bit.

I can feel myself gearing up for this time last year. For Thanksgiving dinner at Buy the Book (something I don't think I have it in me to do without you this year), my birthday, Christmas, the trip we took to Seoul, how "off" you were, January, your bouts with drinking, my trip to Thailand, your troubled messages, the unplanned break-up, the spiraling out, the ache, the fall. Your death. I can feel myself gearing up for all of this as though it's going to happen again.

Here's what I'm asking of you, babe. Walk with me gently through this autumn. Direct my attention to the golds, the reds, the oranges against the bright blue sky. Pat the ground during one of my walks and say, "Here. Here, babe. This is a great place to stop." Sit with me and remind me to breathe deeply. Breathe slowly. To take it all in. Show me how beautiful this time of the year is, especially in Korea. Wrap yourself around me when I take your scarf out of my bag and drape it around my shoulders.

In the years to come, I will navigate through the change of seasons with a softness. With grace. But as it is now, I still need you.

I took some odd turns here and there through back alleys last night, and came across this.











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