The season of remorse

I'm moving through the days, humming, vibrating.

We're moving into the season of remembrance, the season of remorse. The air is thick with the time to remember to forget, and the time to wish we hadn't forgotten to remember.

I'm carrying words with me, both literally and figuratively. I'm repeating the verses in my head, out loud, whispering it into the last wave of heat, the last dying gasp of summer. Foreign to us and local to them.

It's been two years, but I feel like I only truly miss him now--now that I'm ready to write him the letter that he probably waited for. We promised that we'd reconnect in our mid-twenties. Well, here we are. Or rather, here I am. He didn't make it.

In these days, a lot of my thoughts are reserved for Kenny.

But the moments? The moments are for me.

Natty and I crashed a Toronto film fest pre-party tonight. We sat at the bar, drinking our drinks, but weren't innocuous enough--the organizer of the event came up to talk to us, trying to place us.

"Are you actresses?"

We both laughed awkwardly. "No." He waited for us to explain what it is that we actually do.

I looked to Natty, confused. How can we sum up what we do, easily, conveniently?

She looked back at me, before answering on our behalf, "She's a writer. I'm a photographer." Leave it to Natty, to sum up the situation, neatly, tidily, truthfully, yet somehow completely inaccurately.

"Really? What kind of a writer?"

"I'm a journalist," I answered, confidently. A lie. Yet not.

"Really? Who do you write for?"

I write for myself.