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.