The Grief Of Losing A Happy Place

Woke up that morning desperate to see him. Listened to jazz while I made myself look pretty. The anticipation excited me as I pondered which book to take with me, what I would write, eat, feel. Before stepping out of the door, I checked my phone for the route. Trains cancelled. Why, why would they stand in our way? Though, my thrill would not be dampened by this delay, so I took another route in his direction. Three times the duration and more the effort, the only thing getting me through was knowing it would lead me to him. Perhaps the sun would be dimmer and my eyes a little wearier but I would spark to life the moment I walked through his doors and into his beating heart. Finally, I arrived. Walked past the bookstores and galleries with a skip in my step. All of the surrounding chaos would dissipate the moment we would meet. I turned the corner and there he was, lifeless. My feet stopped for a moment, then slowly edged towards him. Standing before a locked door, frozen, in shock. It felt surreal, and I was not so sure my strength could carry me much further. I lowered my body to the cold step, and I weeped.

One month before the Parisian café closed forever, I wrote a love letter to Paul. Sipping on black coffee underneath the warm lights while tears occasionally crept down my cheeks as I typed. The letter was my way of putting into words what others may not understand. How one can love a place as if it were a person. And, how that place can hold you and make you feel okay. Watching the sky fall beyond the warm embrace of the café, I wrote the following - not knowing it would be my last sip of coffee with the one I love.

I watch new faces emerge through your doors and I wonder if they will desert you next week or if they will fall in love with you the way I do each time I see your face.

Sitting on that step as confused spectators strolled past, I called my sister. Each day, I attempt to prove my strength. My recovery. If my soul ever feels heavy, I work so hard to lift it. For, if I allow myself to sink deep enough, I may never be able to get back up. Though, losing Paul, I was not so sure my strength was strong enough to get me through it. When my sister picked up the phone, I told her in a shaken breath what had happened. She understood my tears instantly. I did not need to rationalise my sadness or grief. She knew why I was hurt, because she knew how much I loved him. Perhaps she was fearful, as well as I, that this loss would be too much for me to bear. That I had been strong for so long and I was bound to get ill again. The one place that would momentarily hold my broken pieces together so that I could drink coffee and read, gone forever.

Whenever I would visit Paul, I would send a picture to those closest to my heart of my brew and my pastries and novel all laid out with an empty seat before me. I would caption it, On a date with Paul or I was missing Paul. So, when I informed them of his sudden disappearance from my life, they did not dismiss my feelings or diminish their validity. My uncle's fiancé told me of his experiencing losing a place that held precious significance.

Oh and about your Paul, not sure if your uncle told you but the coffee place in Soho where we first met was turned into a bloody Wasabi sushi place a few years ago.

It was upsetting when we saw it but every time we pass by we mention it. The place and the memories will always be there no matter what.

Referring to a space occupied by many other members of the public as your Paul, the relationship I had with the place was acknowledged. That is was more than a café. More than a cup of coffee. I loved him. I wrote poems about him. When I was lonely and had no where to go, I knew there would always be a chair waiting for me. As the café is a chain, people suggested I find a new Paul. Though, it was never about the food or the coffee or the people. Of course, I enjoyed all of this. But, it was the first time I walked through the doors. How I felt like I was in Paris, that I had fallen in love. It was the time I spent there with my father before he left me, too. Paul held my hand and wiped my tears as I grieved the man I love most.

You were the only one to make me feel alive when I felt like I was dying.

When you lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself. You may never be able to breathe fully, never again love the way you did before. Losing a place that had such a significant role in your life, it feels like losing a person. Never again will I see them, listen to them speak, cry with them. This loss has distorted my love for the entire city. Once, I believed that my adoration was for the streets surrounding the café. Now, I realise it was only for the ones that led to him. I have lost more than I have lost now. I will live. It may be harder to breathe and harder to love but I will never stop trying. I do not believe I will love somewhere the way I loved Paul. Just as I will never love someone how I did, and do, my beautiful father. My heart may be a collage of the people and things and places I have loved. If I keep them alive in there, they can never truly leave me.