There’s nothing better than being with the person you love in the city of love.  The weather always plays a factor and today is perfect: sunny and warm with a slight breeze that ripples through the supple green leaves of the trees that surround us.  I can sit and talk and waste the time away and, when there’s nothing left to say, I can stare at him and wonder how it is that I took so long to get to him.  It seems like I’ve known him my whole life, but it’s only now that I’m truly seeing him. 

And at first there are so many questions.  They come to my mind in crashing waves and each one generates five more and then five more after that and they don’t stop.  I ask them so quickly and they’re all strung together; he can’t even answer.  I’ve known him forever and never been able to ask.  Now is the time; he’s right here with me, in Paris, but I’m too excited and the thoughts won’t slow long enough to get a response.

And I start to tell him about me.  I have thoughts like his.  Sometimes.  But sometimes is enough for me to know that we’re alike on some level.  He must understand me.  I know he would if I could just get out all of these ideas.  I know him and I need him to know me.  I ramble on and he’s just there and I hope he sees how I feel so connected to him.  But he doesn’t say a word.

So I go on to tell him, repeat back to him, the things he has said in the past.  I use his words and hope that the sound of me saying them makes him understand that they are shared thoughts.  I’ve had these ideas too, these feelings, but I couldn’t articulate them the way he could.  I could never even whisper it quietly to myself in the right way.  That was his job.  And here I stand with the one person who should understand it all and I’ve told him everything, asked him every question.  I’ve exposed myself because I believe he’ll understand me in this way.  He remains silent. 

I stare, and he doesn’t say a word.

Eric gently squeezes my shoulder and asks me if I’m ready to go. 

‘But I haven’t gotten an answer yet!  He hasn’t said anything!’ I want to yell.  But Eric’s touch roughly reality forces itself into my face and the world is the world again and he’s still there and I’m still there, but it’s not just us anymore.  I look around.  People are toasting him with cheap beer.  Others just stare.  And Eric asks me again if I’m ready to go.  I’m not, but there’s no use in staying any longer.  He won’t answer me.

I turn from him and start to walk out of the cemetery.  I know he’s not really there: just bones in a wooden box.  A headstone placed at his grave by his father reads: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ, “true to his own spirit”.  And that’s all I’m left with; that phrase and my iPod are the only answers I’ll ever get from him.   

Eric and I leave the cemetery to find the next whiskey bar and raise up a glass in honor of Jim Morrison.  I think he’d appreciate that.

Until tomorrow and the new adventure…

Rachel