I struggle to see the screen, through the wetness exiting my eyes. Not a constant thing, only when a certain flash of memory occurs, like you singing your goofy song, or doing your monkey dance. You’re leaving. It’s a done deal. You won’t be back, and I feel like I’m dying.

I’m not delusional. I know we’ve had many more bad times than good. At times I wanted to:

• Punch you in the mouth
• Run away from you, out of sheer terror
• Call the cops and have you deported
• Take out a restraining order against you

And then there were times I just wanted to hold you. To see your startled expression when I scared the crap out of you while you were coming out of the bathroom. To feel your head against my shoulder. Soon, I’ll not get to hear you butcher the English language, and it’s tearing me up inside.

I know that eventually we’ll get used to our new lives, and probably even forget a lot, if not most of the past couple years. As I write these words, however, that time seems far distant, as my head feels like it may explode from the rush of memories. I hope this is easier for you.

Logically, we both know this is not only what’s best, but what eventually had to happen. Little comfort, I know, and logic be damned.

I’ll miss the way you prepare rice and fish, and the way you pronounce “Melba Toast.” The way you twist and scream with laughter when I bite your feet. Even during the bad times, I’m sure you knew I loved you, even though I wouldn’t say it.

Au revoir, ma petit tomate.