Not sure where to begin. It’s been a minute.

A long minute.

How does one talk about the greatest love of his life? The one he lost?

You write a book, I imagine.

And even that doesn’t seem enough.

I’ve done a lot of that these last couple of weeks—writing, remembering, crying.

Looking back on loss is hard.

I’ve spent the last twenty years settling. Settling for less. Settling for survival. Settling for a life that looked complete from the outside but never quite fit once I was alone with it. I gave up on dreams. Gave up on hope. Reinvented myself more times than I can count. New cities. New jobs. New names. New versions of a man trying not to look backward.

I became very good at pretending.

If I were a spiritual man, I might thank God. Or fate. Or whatever force people believe guides the universe when it decides to be kind.

But I’m not.

I just kept moving.

California. Texas. Las Vegas. A hundred places in between. Never staying anywhere long enough to grow roots. Never letting anyone get close enough to matter. Existing more than living.

The years passed.

And somehow, through all of it, there was always this ghost.

Not a haunting.

A memory.

A voice.

A song I couldn’t stop hearing long after the music ended.

So I suppose I’ll just start with this:

She is back.

And so am I.

And maybe that’s where this story really begins.