It’s been almost 8 years since you died.
I moved out of our apartment long ago.
Then I moved again.
And then again.
Then I made a big move out of the NY area completely – leaving where we shared all of our years together.
I have a totally different job than when you were alive.
I’m going into real estate.
I wrote about you. About us.
We have a niece named Jillian that you never met. She is very silly and funny and she is 6 years old.
Our nephew Brian is 9 now, and hes really good at baseball, just like his dad and his grandpa. He would be chiding you now about the Yankees and telling you they suck. You would be playing video gAmes together.
My parents are doing well, and although your name is still mentioned here and there by family, it’s me that keeps you alive and relevant. It’s my honor and my responsibility – one that I take very seriously. But I often wish that your other friends and family would speak of you more. I wish we could all be in touch better. I wish I felt more connected.
It’s been 8 years and I just miss you.
I long to talk about you with others.
Day to day, my life feels more distant from whatever form of energy life that you live now. I feel you near, and I know you are, but the life I’m living feels so far away from the life we were building. This makes me sad, even though I am happy.
I wish I could explain what it feels like to miss your very best friend.
I miss talking to you and hearing your words talk back.
I could be mostly okay with this whole death thing, if once a week or so, we could have a conversation or sing and play guitar together. If we could just have a short visit.
Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like you’re so far away.
Maybe.
