It's easy to say that I miss you, but two decades have passed since your death. It's harder to say how accustomed I've gotten to life without you.
But I have.
Who would you be, now, if you were still here? Would you still cover your mouth when you giggled? Wring your hands when you worried? When a favorite song came on the radio would you still get all wide-eyed and breathlessly exclaim "this song is the best?"
Who would we be if you were still here? I wondered this today as I washed the dishes. Wondered what it would be like to call you, hear your voice at the other end of the line as we talked about... what? What would be our bond?
It used to be art, music, quoting silly movies and you making fun of me for having every line of Dazed and Confused memorized. God, we were such kids.
We hurt, you and I. A lot of us kids did. We didn't really know it, but I guess you knew it enough to let it all go. Me, I held on and lied to myself for more than a decade afterward that everything was fine until finally I realized it wasn't and got to work. Now here I am, well, pretty much better, for the most part, and wondering what you would be like if you had chosen the journey instead of the escape route that I no longer begrudge you for taking.
I make up different stories for you, sometimes, for the version of you that would have survived. Comic book artist. Doctor. Mother. Things that you could have been with that brilliant mind of yours. Whenever I dream about you, you are laughing. Sometimes you are naked. Always you are free.
I am glad that you are free, but not a day goes by that I don't wish that you were still here.
Sarah.
I have so much to tell you about everything that's happened these past twenty years you've been gone.
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