That morning I reached to turn on the radio as I always did to listen to NPR. It was one of the only comforts during my stay in the rural Midwest in a town of 80 people, three liquor bars and only orange cheese. My girlfriend Michelle stopped me. Do you have to turn that on every morning? Let's just cuddle. So we did. Soon after a friend called frantic wanting to know if I'd heard anything from people. Anything about what I asked. We'd known each other during my recent years living in Manhattan. I was an art director and musician. I've married my bassist, but it didn't work out. He was an expert trick and trial cyclist we'd spent many evenings riding around the city with his crew often stopping at the World Trade Center, jumping the sloping walkways and low stone benches. The news stunned me, Michelle and I were traveling cross country in a few days for my cousin's wedding in Vermont. What was going to be a fun adventure turned into a dirge. We passed hundreds of roadside signs with proclamations of grief. We witnessed a country in mourning. We curtailed many planned stops due to the weight of emotion. But we did stop an Ann Arbor to quench our thirst for the cultural feast and good cheeses the deep Midwest sorely lacked. We came upon an art gallery with stacks of unique photos of the Twin Towers. The artists was there, her eyes red from crying. I just developed these, she said, "I forgot they were on that roll. Take up to two weeks. I just want everyone to have them. They're free." The wedding was beautiful, family and friends from all over the world. But Michelle and I were deeply overwhelmed. And someone with female Asperger's, the stress was unbearable. We rushed back to our respective homes and I fell into a deep meltdown. Michelle's stay in that area was soon to end. She was traveling the U.S. and then returning to Vermont to be a ski instructor. Although a romantic relationship was temporary, our bond of friendship seemed lifelong. The day she was set to leave, I was still in deep, emotional paralysis. She pounded on my door throughout the day. I couldn't get up from the closet floor. I couldn't shout to her. I thought I'd be able to make it up to her later. I was stuck in moments in Manhattan, riding my mountain bike over and over through the broad patchwork of smooth stones and statues. The salty air and sense of freedom is still fresh in my memory. I emailed and called Michelle several times in the following months to no avail. I bought an RV to return home and attend Goddard College's MFA program, I thought surely we would reconcile in Vermont. But when I contacted the resort, they had no record of where she was. I scoured the internet for years for any sign of her. Nothing. To this day, these two losses still ache in my belly. How can things that seem so impermeable just suddenly be gone?

Waters Breedlove