The Persistance of Memory

Last night I dreamed of my ex boyfriend. I had recently cleaned out my closet. In the far back I found what knew would be there. A little plastic bag tied up tightly containing; clothes he had left behind here, a leather belt I had given him, his flip flops. I must admit I smelled his clothes, searching for any trace left of him. Then I put the bag in the garbage. I had been keeping it all this time thinking surely there would be an occasion for me to return it. But I've known for a while now that I will probably never see him again.

I broke up with him this January over the phone. Things weren't going anywhere after a year and I was frustrated. But I was really in love with this guy. The kind of in love that is sickening to witness - all kissing and touching and laughing and adoring stares. Everyone told me that I looked really happy. I was really happy. For a moment.

I was also a bit delusional, I think. He was from Brazil, here to work, save money and go back. He never tired of telling me stories about his country; about the many animals in the Amazon, the affection of his family, how good the food was (how REAL feijoada should taste), the beauty of the beaches, his time working in the slums of Rio, the pleasures of an ice cold Skol, how adorable his little nephew was, how he missed hanging out with everyone in his neighborhood - shirtless and drinking in the streets on a hot summer day. There was never much doubt that he was going back. I was just dumb enough to think that I might be invited along.

I had seen this man cry in front of me. I had seen this man cry because of me. I knew his warmth, his affection, his protection. I saw his loyalty to his family. He spent hours cooking for me in his tiny kitchen. He jumped rope with his nieces. I saw him take care of his older brother (who he lived with) after an unimaginable family tragedy. We laughed A LOT together. I taught him English. He taught me bad words in Portuguese. I was crazy about this guy. I was crazy.

He's still here. Saving money to go back to his country. Back to his family. Back to everything. I think his life here is just a point on a course, just some necessary time spent somewhere to get to where he really wants to be. He's building a house in Brazil. When he goes back he will have his own new house. I'm sure he will marry the girl who lives next door; she's been pretending not to, but she has been waiting for him all this time. I thought we'd at least say friends when we broke up. You know, talk once in a while, have a beer to catch up. But he doesn't want to be friends. I'm not sure if he knows how. Once he told me he was 'afraid to see me'. Or maybe he just doesn't care. I've spent months wondering why he doesn't want to see me. Months agonizing about it. Months of dreaming that he never loved me in the first place. Now I have to give up. I will never know the answer to these questions.

I have more questions for myself. What did this relationship represent to me? Why did I fall so hard for this guy? I think this was the ultimate form of escapism, to think that I could love someone and leave EVERYTHING behind. Too bad he didn't feel the same...