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Truth be told, Gatsby— even in death— looked wonderful. I thought of him as glorious even when all life had faded from him. Of course, with this stunted realisation of admiration came another thing; a haunting longing. A strong, aching, dull, longing. I wanted nothing more than to take Gatsby in my arms and wish him one final goodbye, but such things couldn’t happen, the presence of too many wayward others were like unwanted flies to me.
So, with my realisations blooming like flowers and an unsatiated longing in me, I simply walked away. I walked back to my house. I started making phone calls, arranging things as best as I could and calling those who should be called. Daisy and Tom were long gone, apparently pleased with their decision to simply abandon me and Gatsby. Ever revelled in their newly acquired dislike for Gatsby, and I was awash with a strange sensation. A feeling that it was I and Gatsby against everything else. This feeling comforted me in a strange way, and I think that if Gatsby would have been able to, he would have applauded my efforts. Or, maybe I was merely trying on a pair of rose tinted glasses. Merely trying to see everything from a different perspective now that I had seen Gatsby from a different perspective.
They say that distance makes the heart grow fonder. They say that loss makes you truly want. They say so many things, and while I used to think of them as meaningless and inapplicable, I found my heart shattering at Gatsby’s funeral either way. I don’t know if there was truly anything I could have done, but I knew that the ache in my heart during our final hours meant more than I could have ever thought.
It was ridiculous how unaffected everyone else was at Gatsby’s funeral. Jay Gatsby— Jay Gatsby !— was dead! No one but me shed a tear. I wanted to scoff, but I thought of it a bit unbecoming. I had only known the man for a couple months, and yet I felt like a widow grieving over her recent husband. I was grieving the loss of someone who I could only fully appreciate now.
I don’t frequently wonder if heaven exists, but I’ve found myself hoping— hoping that I’ve done enough during this mortal life to be reacquainted with Gatsby in death. To maybe, truly be able to tell him how I feel, and how wonderful his presence and existence was to me. Oh what I wouldn’t give to let him know about the details of my love for him.
Leaving West Egg was a true pain. I simply couldn’t bear to stay there any longer. West Egg simply wasn’t where I could be, not without the support of those who I had known. Gatsby was dead and I was practically dead to everyone else. What use was it to stay where I had an easy view of Gatsby’s mansion? That was asking to have my heart broken all over again every day. I just wish— like the foolish man I am— that I could have done something different.