While looking for my spare back pack in the attic, I’m distracted when discover an old forgotten box. Picking through the contents, I see souvenirs and photographs of friends and family at holidays and events. There’s the photo of you I’d taken on New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago. We were in a restaurant in New York. You were looking direct to camera, grinning, white teeth against suntanned skin. You were holding a noisemaker as though it was a glass of champagne, “Cheers!” You seemed say. I love that photo of you. Taking it from the box, I put it in my pocket, put the rest of the items back in storage, heft the backpack and shut the attic door.
It’s early afternoon in the city and crowds are gathering. I navigate one barrier and the next, but the one after that, has a burly security guard who won’t let me pass. He asks for more than my wristband as accreditation. I panic. What else does he need? The other photographers who are with me at the checkin tell me that he's joking in that dry, Aussie way and I'm allowed through.
I wander down to the water which reflects the cloud dotted sky. People won’t be arriving for a couple of hours. While I wait, I check out bobbing boats that are anchored nearby, the largest of which is a catamaran. A group of people relax on deck, some sit in the shade. A man in a pair of Speedos dives overboard, swims around the boat, floats on his back. At the stern, he pulls himself up on deck and proceeds to rinse off with a hose. With his tanned skin and close-cropped hair, he reminds me of you.
I turn my attention to taking photographs as people begin to arrive: The Opera House, city skyline, Harbour Bridge and the activities nearby. Colour and movement enhanced by a band playing Bossa Nova. It's hot and humid. My hair is drenched, make-up smeared under the eye from peering through the view finder. I don't discover the smear until ages later, when I'm in the bathroom, though I've been happily chatting to people for hours looking like a clown.
As night falls, alcohol helps the crowd shed inhibitions. The nine o’clock fireworks detonate nearby with the ferocity of war. Crack! Boom! Bang! Shells burst overhead shedding cascades of coloured lights. The blasts resound in my chest.
Food service has finished, dancers take to the floor while bands play popular classics. I see someone on the floor, doing a back and forth shuffling sway, just like you. I smile to myself and take photos of dancers in the red, green and blue lights that stream across the space.
When the celebration over, another year has come and gone. I wander through city streets full of revellers. You know the saying, ‘lonely in a crowd?’ This is me.
I buy a pie from the local 24/7 store. Once at home, I kick off my shoes, drop my bags on the table, open a bottle of your favourite red, turn on the TV and collapse on the couch, eating pie and watching music videos. Then I retreat to bed when it's almost sun rise.
The next day, I check out the photos on my computer. Some hits, some misses. In one under exposed pic, I see a man in a white shirt and jeans, standing up on the top deck of a cruiser. One hand is on his hip, the other leaning on the boat for support. The stance is just like you. My heart does’t leap, but I'm aware of a persistent longing.
While putting away the Christmas ornaments, the tree and cards, I see your New York New Year’s photo on the mantle above the fireplace. I've since had it framed.
II
Months later, I take everything one day at a time. I’m preparing for my next big adventure. First stop Sri Lanka, and when I return, I’m off to Canada for an online magazine. I think you’d be happy with the progress I’ve made. I’m doing so much, learning so much and making so many connections. I'm also making mistakes and trying to come to terms with them. I leap into every challenge like a trapeze artist without a net. It’s a hard habit to break because you were always there to catch me if I fell.
Since you left, I've had a couple of vivid dreams in which you sagely nod as I talk about unimportant things. I broke down the other night, in a torrent of inconsolable tears over a dumb movie with a scene that reminded me of you. You're in everything I see and do and in everything I am.
I miss falling into your arms at the end of a day. I miss your touch the most. Whenever we held hands, or you’d take my face in your hands and kiss me, or gaze into my eyes, I knew I was loved. Your face is the one I wanted to see every day when I awoke and the one I most wanted to see before I went to sleep. We were supposed to grow old together, but you’re gone and there will never be another you.
