I had a dream about you today.
It was warped and twisted,
like all dreams,
but I could tell in my heart
but I could tell in my heart that it was about you.
You were laying in a coffin,
but I couldn't see it.
People would talk about you every so often,
but I couldn't hear it.
I knew that my pain would not soften,
but I couldn't feel it.
I only remember snippets of moments.
Two newspapers on a table
Two newspapers on a table with blaring headlines.
See, even the newspapers were
See, even the newspapers were screaming in the pain of your loss.
The newspaper on the left
had a picture of the room I was in.
How was the newspaper published so quickly?
I'm not sure.
Next to it, another newspaper.
In this one, there was a picture
of a woman,
of a woman, someone I vaguely recognized.
of a woman, someone I vaguely recognized. Where had I seen her?
The dream never let me get a good look at her face.
She was standing next to a rose.
It was taller than her, with crimson petals
and a dark green stem.
Again, I'm not quite sure how,
but I knew in my heart
but I knew in my heart that it was supposed to represent you.
I can't recall the events of the dream too clearly.
It's like a mist,
evaporating when I try to grab it.
But I do remember the end.
All of the children in the room, including me,
stood up and started to walk in a line.
It twisted around and around the room,
a human chain.
Kids, innocent or burdened by loss,
linked to each other by their grief.
Then, I woke up.
Before I knew it,
tears were running down my cheeks.
tears were running down my cheeks. I don't know why.
Maybe it was just the side effects
of a sad dream mixed with
the confusion of waking up in the morning.
Maybe I was realizing
just how much I had missed you.
Because, sometimes, I can think about you
and be okay.
Maybe a little bit sad, but still fine.
But other times, the pain is unexpected.
I can be completely happy,
but then I'll see
an object that reminds me of you,
a book you liked,
the title of your favorite poem.
And it makes my glass heart
shatter into a million pieces.
Pieces of broken glass
shining with tears.
Because I miss you.
I miss the feeling of my small hand in yours.
I miss your quiet presence.
I miss the way you used to laugh.
And then I hate the things I miss about you.
I only needed to hold your hand because
you were too weak to walk on your own.
Your presence was only quiet because
the cancer took away all of your energy.
I only missed your laugh because
it was rare.
You were too tired to laugh on most days.
You used to be as bright as the sun,
entertaining my cousins, your grandchildren
when all of the adults were too busy talking.
Giving us riddles so that you could
watch us figure it out on our own.
But the last few years of your life,
you were like a star.
Still bright and important,
but slowly fading into the background.
So I guess I miss the way you used to be.
I mean, technically, you were still there.
I saw the old you when you measured our heights
with pencil marks on the wall,
telling us that you hoped we would be taller than you
I'm taller now, still shorter than you were,
but I have time to grow.
I saw the old you when you organized a talent show for me and my cousins.
I remember playing the violin for it.
Just a simple song I was proud to be able to play.
I can play better now.
I can play the song that was too difficult for me
the summer I visited you.
I played the piece, a beautiful solo,
at a concert during the spring after your funeral.
My only regret was that you weren't there to listen.
I knew you would've smiled and clapped for me
if you had been there.
The truth is,
I lost you before you even really left.
The illness took away parts of you until
there was almost nothing left.
Maybe that's why I cried.
Maybe that's why I cried. Good people don't always get the best things in life.
And that's why I want to remember you.
Forever and ever, until I can see you again.
Forever and ever, until I can see you again. But even as I thought about this,
I wiped away my tears with my blanket.
I wiped away my tears with my blanket. And waited until I stopped crying.
I pretended I was sleeping,
so that no one would walk into my room
and realize that I had cried.
Because I don't like to talk about you.
It hurts too much, and it makes me feel like
I'm truly accepting the fact that you're gone.
So most days, I focus on the present.
Move on, like you probably wanted me to.
But then I'll feel guilty because
you were amazing.
And I want the whole world to know it.
I feel bad for forgetting.
I hate the fact that I forgot in the first place.
It seems like a crime to forget you and
the amazing person that you were.
So I'll settle by thinking about you sometimes. Only sometimes.
I won't cry about you anymore. You wouldn't have wanted me to cry.
I remember the good memories,
not the sad ones.
I loved you,
I loved you, and I still do,
even though I never said it out loud.
And I miss you,
more than words can say.
But before I leave,
I'll just mention three more memories,
forever preserve them in stanzas so that
I'll never forget them.
One day, you had to go to the hospital,
so we went with you so that you wouldn't be lonely.
It took the entire day.
We were just sitting in chairs,
waiting and waiting for your name to be called.
After it was all over, we went to a restaurant.
It was late, and we were the only people there.
I remember you and the other grown-ups just
I was just happy to be in the background,
knowing that you were happy.
Knowing that the cancer hadn't taken away
all of your spirit.
Knowing that the cancer hadn't taken away
all of your appetite.
Because you were so sick that
you were continuously losing weight.
The food that you ate could save you,
even though I know now that
you were already way past the point where
you could be saved.
The next memory took place right after.
We were walking back to the car.
It was dark out, and I decided to scare my mom.
I let go of your hand, ran forwards, and grabbed her ankle.
I turned around to see if you were laughing, too.
After all, you had always loved practical jokes.
However, you were just standing there.
Not laughing, not moving at all.
Later, I realized that you hadn't even seen me scaring my mom.
The cancer had already ruined too much your eyesight,
and you weren't capable of seeing in the dark.
I ran back to you and grabbed your hand,
and your wrinkled hand felt weak in mine.
I guided you the rest of the way to the car.
In my final memory,
you weren't even there.
At least, not as a living human being.
The day of your funeral, after we had finished all of the
sad parts: the burial, the song, and the tears,
we ate lunch.
It was October, quite a few months since I had
last visited you.
But I remember reaching out to pour
a second cup of orange juice for you,
only to realize that you weren't there.
It was just a small moment, and
nobody else noticed, but it happened.
I don't know what I'm trying to accomplish by writing this.
Maybe it's a way of coping.
Maybe it's a way to remember you.
Maybe it's a way to say that I miss you.
Maybe it's a way to say that I love you.
Maybe it's all of the above.