Isolation

I couldn't tell you. You probably don't remember your half of where we were, which might not have been in your consciousness even then, given its on-again-off-again nature over those 5 years and three states. You still don't know my half, and it probably isn't important that you do. It may have been an understandable reaction to you, but more likely was just another example of how poorly I loved you; in either case, I'm still embarrassed by my lack of judgment and ashamed of my actions.

I certainly wasn't going to tell you. The last thing in the world I ever want to do is remind you of your own loss and pain. But know this: as long as I live and my mind functions, I will be thinking of (and praying for) you on (and around) those three dates every year.

I've never been one to observe death anniversaries, and yesterday it was as if 29 years of them crashed into me at once. It didn't bring me any sense of closeness to you, though, the way your memory usually does. It just made me feel alone in the world, as the only one out of 7.5 billion people (depending on whose population estimate we believe) on the planet who was remembering that you'd been here and that yesterday was the day you left. You deserve better.