5 years

Tomorrow will have been 5 years since you died.
One eighth of my lifetime, after you had been there for just under half of it. And now I speak to someone who hears nothing.  No, I’m not crazy.  No, I don’t think you’re somewhere where you can hear my voice.
I know you are gone. So why do I speak to you?  Because of all things I miss, it is your voice that burns the most.  Sitting outside discussing the stars. 

The sobs in your voice when you came out and the louder ones when you realized I wasn’t upset by it.
Your laughter that infected the room with mirth, or your voice carrying across the soccer pitch calling for the ball or yelling to a defender out of position.
I no longer ask the question why you chose to die.  I am no longer angry.   All I have is an empty spot that will never be filled.
You’d be just shy of 22 years old now. But I will always see my beautiful 16 year old.  That’s where your journey ended. That’s where the photos stopped.
I never want to feel ok on this day. I always want the feeling of wrongness of a world with you not in it.  I mourn the college you never went to.  I shed tears that I will never walk down the aisle with you to the woman of your dreams.
See, death is experienced by those peft behind. And the person you still called daddy up until the day you were gone experienced it more than any.
My grave is next to yours.  Bought and ready for my eventual end.  One day millions of years from now our matter will be scattered into the universe together at the death of our planet.
We will be together among the stars, forever.
Maybe, my dear Amber, my precious daughter, we will form a star together.

6 thoughts on “5 years

  1. I don’t know you at all. I started following you on Twitter not long ago. I don’t even remember why – someone I do follow probably retweeted something you said.

    I am American, but come from an extremely similar background (church, white school in small town, bullied in middle school mostly, raped, had a child at age 19, didn’t realize I was quasi-racist until my 30s, made fun of gay people until I was in college, I have ALWAYS struggled with anxiety and I’m currently seriously depressed. Also, I’m pretty much a smartass at all times).

    Now, I share many of the beliefs you’ve expressed here. And I live in Texas. Ha.

    I came across this post and the one about your family and friends forgetting or at least not openly remembering your daughter. It gutted me. I’m depressed to the point of wishing I was no longer walking this Earth. The only reason I’m here is because of the people I would leave behind. My mother. My step-father. My children and husband. I hold onto them by a thin string, tying me to this world. And I read your words and it helped me maybe strengthen that string a little more. So, thank you.

    I lost my father in a car accident when I was 18 (he was 46). I can also identify with people forgetting a loved one. My family is and was exceedingly small. I have no siblings, neither did my dad, nor did his dad. I have no first cousins. My parents had been divorced (amicably) for years when he died and besides my mother, I’m the only one who is left who remembers him. It will be 20 years this November 12.

    I’m so sorry for your loss. They seem like such empty words, just sitting there alone. But I took your story to heart. And I hope you continue to improve with your mental health issues.

    Tracy from the “great” state of T-E-X-A-S

    • Thank you for your comments. I wish you as much peace as you are able to muster.

  2. Dammit, I missed a golden opportunity, one I’ll use from now on. I also now realize editing is something I should think about before pressing “Post Comment.” I don’t normally comment on blogs. Or speak much in general. My Twitter account is mostly me creeping other posts and retweeting stuff I like. So, here’s my edited salutation:
    Tracy from the great state of T-E-X-A-S-S

    Much more descriptive; probably not original, though.

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