i kept the book you gave me when we were nine. i remember your laugh. i have never visited your grave. your mother made me cookies and i let them go to waste.
they say grief is learning to live with a hole in your chest, and i have. they say i’ll move on until one day the thought of you will no longer cross my mind, and perhaps it has already happened. perhaps.
and perhaps one day i’ll forget your birthday. perhaps i’ll forget all the childish promises and unforgiven grudges. perhaps one day i’ll forget you ever existed and be all the better for it.
but i’ll remember the grief you taught me when i found that pencil in the depths of my drawers that i forgot to return you and never apologised for. i’ll remember the grief you taught me when your mother held my hand and told me you’d hoped i’d come back. i’ll remember the grief you taught me when i refused to approach the casket because i could not bear the sight. i’ll remember the grief you taught me when all of you remained 14 while i continued my march forwards.
i’ll remember the grief you taught me when my own mother told me i reminded her of you.
happy birthday. i hope you have a good one.