My Translator: He's Buried 6 Feet Deep

what's going on in there?


Tears are streaming down my cheeks right now as I realize that the person who best understands how I communicate, gets me, and all of my subtleties, is in a brass box on a grassy knoll overlooking Los Altos. Not really helpful.


He might be able to explain that when I stop talking, there are many reasons, but you should never jump to conclusions of your own. I will always express myself, eventually. Always. It might be in writing, because that's my most natural way of communicating, so I use it to open the door, sometimes. But, I will always get there.


He might tell you that when I shut down, clench my jaw, and nod along as you speak but am disinterested, that you've missed something in what I've been saying along the way. It might have been something small that I said. The words might have been simple. The actions might have been more important, but they were missed. I don't do this with the people closest to me who will be in my life forever, only those whom I have given up communicating with. I have lost hope. I have seen something I didn't like and moved on. I probably forgot to tell you. It's a fatal flaw in my character. I own it.


He might tell you that sometimes I'm just incredibly clueless about people and don't notice or sometimes care that they are bent out of shape or sensitive to things that I find silly or inane. He might tell you that I'd rather just move on.


He might tell you that he loved that I wasn't a typical girl when it came to communicating. I didn't ever ask him what he was thinking or expect him to guess what I was thinking. Silence was okay, even if it meant I was brooding over something. There was nothing threatening to our relationship about me working shit out in my head. If he was concerned, he asked. If I couldn't answer yet, that's what I said.


The thing was, he lived in my heart. Still does. So, maybe that's the key to being in my life and figuring me out. You have to climb into that sacred space and hang out. It has beanbag chairs, I'm pretty sure. I don't think he would have spent two decades in there without them.