They say time heals all wounds. I don’t think I agree with that. Especially on days like today. Days like today prove that I am most certainly not healed.
When you died, seven days before my daughter was born, it shook me to my core. I know that you were at peace, and that you were okay with dying. As long as you didn’t die on anyone’s birthday, because you didn’t want to ruin anyone’s birthday. That was just so like you. To worry what we would think about after you were gone.
What you didn’t think about though was how we would FEEL. I, for one, was not at peace with the idea of you dying. I’m really, really good at pretending to be okay. I’m really good under pressure. It’s exhausting.
You were the rock that kept us all grounded. You were the glue that kept us all together. The common denominator is everyone’s life that kept us all returning to square one. YOU.
On days like today I just want to pick up the phone and call you. But I can’t. I would give anything for you to tell me to “take a minute and calm down before you run off and make any decisions”. See, needing your advice isn’t the problem, because I know what you’d say. I just really, really want to hear you say it.
But I can’t.
There is no moral to this story. There is no happy ending. There are no questions to be answered. Just plain old frustration. Five years have passed, and I think about you everyday. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had something important to say to you. Or a question to ask that only you would know the answer to. It sucks. Plain and simple. The end.