I don't miss her anymore. I miss what she was, what she represented, what I wanted her to be. Some things are irrevocably hers: the Dreamworks SKG logo, the Jeff Buckley version of Hallelujah, the opening credits of Bridget Jones' Diary. But I don't look at new things through through her eyes. I never think, "She would like this. I wish I could tell her." I think I've felt this way for a long time now, but I didn't recognize the change.
And now that I've finally had my epiphany, I would think it would be easier to change her name in the essay I just wrote about her. But I find that I am less and less willing to do so. Now that I can finally look at this story as old history, it has become more precious to me. It is something that needs saving. And anything less than her name feels like a lie, like I'm erasing her from the story by erasing her name. I am allowing someone else to be her.
She would not want me to use her name. And so I have to decide which is more important to me, respecting the wishes of the real woman, or respecting the truth of my memory of her.
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