When We Dream of Memories & Seasons

Do you have any idea what my first thought was on the day we met? I wanted nothing more than to make you happy, to take the subtle sadness from your eyes. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t do it. New York could… and did.

Do you remember everything the same way I do? Like how the city birds flew above us, and you compared them to giant slalom skiers for the way they’d weave from rooftop to rooftop. How the sun and the clouds chased one another, and how we’d tilt our heads to the sky and watch. How we breathed in the city air with a contentment we could taste on the tips of our tongues. Let’s not forget that there was also the way light—any kind of light—hit your eyes, making all their shades of brown come alive. Your features were such a foil to mine, but I know you wouldn't agree with this. I know you’d say that we were both in the spring of our attraction.

In New York, we felt a kind of unbridled happiness rivaled only by the heartbeat of the city. Everything about it appeared hopeful to us. We wanted as much of that hopefulness as we could carry. We lived out loud because we were braver versions of ourselves when we were together. Everything had a purpose—even us—and everything shared the same understanding: the wisdom that moments are like seasons. They don’t stay unless we memorize them. I don’t have to ask if you memorized it all too; your squinting eyes were confirmation enough.

A reader asked me today what it was like early in our friendship, and I said that it was filled with sensations of newness, which of course is a rather obvious answer, but then I added that everything felt too intimate to be unintentional. It was also like meeting myself for the first time—very specific parts of myself I was not acquainted with before. I was different. I didn’t fade to black. I didn’t hesitate or worry that I’d scare you if I revealed too much. In contrast, I couldn’t imagine you being anything but who you were when we met. You walked in confident strides, spoke to me with urgent sincerity, and took up space with such ease. But in New York you were more of all these things. And I wanted more. More for you, more for me and more for us because together we’d become our own person walking into a future we didn’t yet understand.

Now I hope you understand my reasons for writing about you so much. The aim is to give you the life you didn’t get to live. The one where you get to make new friends every day with the people who read about you and look for you in their closest friends. It’s also my way of sharing what I would’ve shared with you had you lived. After you died, I secretly hoped that writing would bring you back to life, and much to my surprise it has—but what I know now is that you never left.

Educated at James Madison University, Robert A. Cozzi has maintained a daily journal since he was in the ninth grade, where a favored teacher encouraged his writing. He regularly shares his unedited, handwritten journal entries with his readers online.