reading each date, honoring each memory—I find the heart-carved stone.
I open my backpack, pull out my notebook, and free my pen from the wire spiral. How can I possibly begin? How do I say goodbye? While I’ll never be fully ready, this farewell needs to happen. I cannot live my entire life as a shell. Robbie would want me to have closure.
I hold pen to paper, remember our love, our time together, us, and write.
Dear Robbie,
You’ll never imagine how I spent the day, crying in an Australian cemetery over someone else’s grave. Those two interlocking hearts were my undoing. Did I ever tell you how your mother let me choose the symbol to be etched onto your gravestone? I think she felt it would bring me closure. I agonized over my choice, before settling on the two hearts. Just like we used to draw in each other’s notebooks. Just like we carved in that tree in the Cuyahoga Metropark.
My mother said it was a sign for an old married couple who planned on being buried together, but I didn’t care. I wanted you to feel my love for eternity.
But I cannot hold onto this love forever. I’m sinking, Robbie. The grief, the loss—of you, of us—carries me down. I love you, I will always love you, but I remember your last words, “Live, for me.”
You will always be my first love. While I’ll never forget your memory, it’s time for me to start living again. You would want that. The old, laughing, goofy Abby, rather than this shell of an Abby that I’ve become. Goodbye, Robbie Williams.
XXXOOO
Abby
As tears splatter the paper, I fold it then place it in one of the small purple envelopes. I begin to stick it into my backpack with the dozens of other letters that crowd my front pocket but look back at the tombstone. After a long pause, I place the envelope into a crevice along the top of the marble. Slowly, I insert the other envelopes wherever they fit, until purple lines the carving.
Hopefully, the other Robert, 1848-1898, will not mind.
I make my way back to the trail. Tears continue to trickle when I finally find Sage. “Ready to finish our hike?”
“Are you okay?” He wipes a droplet from my cheek.
What does “okay” even mean?
Holding onto Robbie for so long has been destructive. I haven’t just lost my beloved; instead, I’ve screwed up my schooling, ruined my friendships, and angered my family. By refusing to let go, I nearly lost myself.
My aboveground tomb looked different from Robbie’s, but the end result was pretty much the same. If I’m ever going to be okay , I need to move on.
We continue the last stretch to Coogee in silence. The sun has just begun to sink, and pinks and oranges illuminate the ocean. The smell of the ocean scents the air as I wipe the last salt-tinged tears from my face.
When the trail ends, we find the bus stop and ride silently back to the ferry landing. The last ferry moves through purple-hued skies and lavender waters. Finally, we reach our campsite. Sage builds a fire. As its warm glow lights up the night, I open up my backpack then pull out the hundreds of unused envelopes that remain. One by one, I fling the purple rectangles into the blaze. Each causes the fire to surge.
Sage sits right next to me, despite the length of the log. “Are you sure?”
“Robbie gave me the envelopes when I left for college.” I throw another one into the fire. “So that each time he saw a purple envelope, he would know immediately that it was ‘precious.’”
“You wrote to him the old-fashioned way?”
“Every day.” I remember my college ritual, sitting in my dorm with pen, paper, and purple envelope. “Sometimes, on hard days, more than once.”
“Why—?”
“He was worth the effort. I mean, we talked on the phone, texted, and video chatted, too, but taking the time to write showed how much I cared.” The blaze intensifies as another envelope hits the flames.
“You never stopped writing.”
“The ritual—writing to Robbie, folding my letter,
I open my backpack, pull out my notebook, and free my pen from the wire spiral. How can I possibly begin? How do I say goodbye? While I’ll never be fully ready, this farewell needs to happen. I cannot live my entire life as a shell. Robbie would want me to have closure.
I hold pen to paper, remember our love, our time together, us, and write.
Dear Robbie,
You’ll never imagine how I spent the day, crying in an Australian cemetery over someone else’s grave. Those two interlocking hearts were my undoing. Did I ever tell you how your mother let me choose the symbol to be etched onto your gravestone? I think she felt it would bring me closure. I agonized over my choice, before settling on the two hearts. Just like we used to draw in each other’s notebooks. Just like we carved in that tree in the Cuyahoga Metropark.
My mother said it was a sign for an old married couple who planned on being buried together, but I didn’t care. I wanted you to feel my love for eternity.
But I cannot hold onto this love forever. I’m sinking, Robbie. The grief, the loss—of you, of us—carries me down. I love you, I will always love you, but I remember your last words, “Live, for me.”
You will always be my first love. While I’ll never forget your memory, it’s time for me to start living again. You would want that. The old, laughing, goofy Abby, rather than this shell of an Abby that I’ve become. Goodbye, Robbie Williams.
XXXOOO
Abby
As tears splatter the paper, I fold it then place it in one of the small purple envelopes. I begin to stick it into my backpack with the dozens of other letters that crowd my front pocket but look back at the tombstone. After a long pause, I place the envelope into a crevice along the top of the marble. Slowly, I insert the other envelopes wherever they fit, until purple lines the carving.
Hopefully, the other Robert, 1848-1898, will not mind.
I make my way back to the trail. Tears continue to trickle when I finally find Sage. “Ready to finish our hike?”
“Are you okay?” He wipes a droplet from my cheek.
What does “okay” even mean?
Holding onto Robbie for so long has been destructive. I haven’t just lost my beloved; instead, I’ve screwed up my schooling, ruined my friendships, and angered my family. By refusing to let go, I nearly lost myself.
My aboveground tomb looked different from Robbie’s, but the end result was pretty much the same. If I’m ever going to be okay , I need to move on.
We continue the last stretch to Coogee in silence. The sun has just begun to sink, and pinks and oranges illuminate the ocean. The smell of the ocean scents the air as I wipe the last salt-tinged tears from my face.
When the trail ends, we find the bus stop and ride silently back to the ferry landing. The last ferry moves through purple-hued skies and lavender waters. Finally, we reach our campsite. Sage builds a fire. As its warm glow lights up the night, I open up my backpack then pull out the hundreds of unused envelopes that remain. One by one, I fling the purple rectangles into the blaze. Each causes the fire to surge.
Sage sits right next to me, despite the length of the log. “Are you sure?”
“Robbie gave me the envelopes when I left for college.” I throw another one into the fire. “So that each time he saw a purple envelope, he would know immediately that it was ‘precious.’”
“You wrote to him the old-fashioned way?”
“Every day.” I remember my college ritual, sitting in my dorm with pen, paper, and purple envelope. “Sometimes, on hard days, more than once.”
“Why—?”
“He was worth the effort. I mean, we talked on the phone, texted, and video chatted, too, but taking the time to write showed how much I cared.” The blaze intensifies as another envelope hits the flames.
“You never stopped writing.”
“The ritual—writing to Robbie, folding my letter,
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