In the airport I bought a notebook. A pen. I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I bought a hairbrush. I haven’t used it. I haven’t had the time.

I have been writing and not writing, daydreaming, then writing some more—it’s been hours. I’ve barely registered the whine of the plane engines, the hum of the ventilation system, the soft questions of the German flight attendants. Am I done with my drink? Do I need a blanket? I stare at them as if I don’t speak the English they address me in, and they move on.

By the tiny pinprick of light coming from overhead, I have been writing so fast and for so long my hand is sore. But I keep at it. Writing is the only way I can organize my swirling thoughts, the moments I’m remembering and the feelings that remain so strong.

My body believes that it’s the middle of the night, but I am watching the sunrise through the ungenerously small window, so I know it must be morning. There are clouds below me. They are all I can see, though the GPS screen in the seat in front of me lets me know we are somewhere over the North Sea.

I keep cooling my tired hand against the window. My thoughts continue to flow. I’m swigging water from an Evian bottle, and the man next to me is distracted by my movements. I am a mess—and being a mess makes me laugh out loud. Again, the man next to me is not pleased. And yet I smile at him. I graciously offer him a mint.

“You have been busy,” he says, shaking his head at the mint, and I nod. I smile. I resist scaring him further by saying something crazy-sounding, like “I understand it all now. I remember it all.” But I do understand. You see, here’s the thing:

Whatever I said to Lucas in the hospital that day, whatever I took from him, and whatever I gave him of myself, whatever happened between us before he slipped away, it gave him the strength to stay. Lucas beat death. He beat time. He beat everything we think we understand about a physical and spiritual divide.

He is here. Because of me. Alive. Whole. And I am going to him. I can’t think past that. I can’t imagine the rest and I don’t need to or want to. I want only to live it, to watch it unfold.

I scan the pages of my notebook, looking back over my scrawl, seeing the places where the pen was pushing down hard and where the ink seemed to flow smoothly. I wonder what I will think of these words when I look back on them later, whether they will twist themselves around, whether I will remember the way I remember right now.

Lucas: I’m going to tell you this story. I will hold your hand. I will look into your eyes the way I did when I was sixteen. I will learn what has become of you. Although I believe I already know. I remember.

Lucas: I remember you.