I can't write

I still hear it in my head, what I want to say and how it should sound, I still edit as I walk, finding better words, stringing ideas together, but I can't get it out of my head any more. Everything leads me back to Jesse, to tears and then despair. I don't know how to get past that minefield, I can only skirt it and keep moving. I want to talk about Italy, about how I knew Jesse had been there; could feel it. Feel him, in Venice. Maybe he told me once, and I just don't remember. I do remember sitting outside the neurology ICU with his ex=girlfriend. There were a series of black and white photos of European cities hung along the hallway where we all camped like, my mother said, gypsies. Knowing he would never wake again, keeping vigil for him anyway. And his ex-girlfriend said, Jesse and I have been to all of those places. And I said, thank you. Thank you for taking him there, thank you for helping him to really live in those last two years. Thank you even for taking him skydiving--that was his Facebook photo, too, before they took it away, him in the plane wide eyed with an almost-grin on his face, the kind of expression you wear when you are about to do something amazing and you know it. Thank you, thank you, thank you. At least I know that happened. At least I know something wonderful happened for him. Not nearly as often as it should.