Do you remember?

Do you remember me saying I wanted to be travel writer? How some nights we would sit in the dark, feeling for each other with our voices, and we'd trade memories of places like it was part of an elaborate board game. It occurred to me in the months after you left, I did become a travel writer after all. I wrote of Sicily and Haifa and Australia and about the Orient and the Mediterranean Sea, about anywhere I thought you might be. Except my destinations were imagined, and I never set foot on another shore. At first this upset me. And then, as time passed, I realized I never was a fan of flying.

Your hair was wild around your face, and your thumbs were pressed up close against each other in front of your lips where they held the top of your fingers. 'Like this,' you said, but you were laughing too hard; you couldn't show me how you made those little little gaps with your fingers and make an unholy whistle.
You had been wearing the flip flops we bought at the beach, but you didn't mind walking through the woods.
I was hopelessly bad at whistling; you kept at it for hours, holding your hands over mine and telling me to try again copious amounts when each time I failed.
Do you know how you love people more on certain days?
It wasn't the way that your eyes gleamed when the sun was beating down on you, or the feeling of your hands locked around mine, willing them to move a certain way.
It was because on that day, at least, you didn't give up.