…it’s all the same.
In just 3 days, it will be the two year anniversary of your death. Two years is a long time, but in this case it still feels like two heartbeats – if that – that I lost you.
And just like that day that you were simply gone, I’m still addressing everything to you, still waiting for a response.
Of course I’m not the only one who lost you. We all did. I think about the others who lost you often. What their hearts must have felt like. Is grief just grief or does each person bear their own brand of grief? Each one of us had a different story that tied to yours, so does that mean we each get our own grief? In that case, are we alone? Surely not right?
Did it rain that night? Was it pouring on me as I moved quickly down the partly lit streets to find comfort in Molly’s? Or am I remembering one of the countless times I ran through the rain just to pop in and say hi? I don’t really remember many details about that day, but I remember, whether it was raining or not, that my heart was beating too loudly, to strong and too unevenly as I still reeled and walked in dry-eyed and polite as I walked past Molly’s family only to sit down on her bed, rub my eyes, and curl into her for the onslaught of tears.
With every ounce of honesty in me, I can tell you that life changed for me that day. You had affected me too much for me to not constantly compare my relationship with you to everyone else around me. You always were and always will be everyone’s Golden Boy, and no one shines as brightly to this day.
Don’t let this letter deceive you. Really, I’ve been doing well. The sadness isn’t as cloying or ever-present. I’m not always dwelling on the grief, but once in a while it does get the best of me. And when the sadness and pain and grief clear away, I’m so grateful for all the happy moments that we shared; for the quiet, radiating love in everything that you did and still do for me every time something or someone reminds me of you.
the aly to your jack