You left. You had to go, tickets were bought and trips were planned but no one knew. Not even you, really. I tell myself the time we had, those few amazing and wonderful moments are the things I’ll hold on to until forever gobbles me up in it’s darkness.

I was bumbling; brimming over with mania, anxiety, and just excitement to see you and all I could do was tell stories. Stories of the silly, crazy, life disasters because I just wanted to make you laugh. Even once. It’s all I know how to do in times of duress and sorrow. Be a clown. Juggle my pins and slip and fall and break to squeeze out a giggle. My forehead gets sweaty and my palms; my fingers itch with nervousness and I transfer weight from one foot to the other over and over and over. But I’m so damn loud, I can’t hear myself over the broken speaker ringing and white noise that fills the right side of my head so I crescendo up and down like the waves crashing in the sea. I am forever sorry.

I don’t know how to stop this. It’s hard for you and a nightmare for us, and I’m not even the US I’m talking about. Them. Those ones- but still us, if you know what I mean. For the family that grieves together bleeds together, yet guilt weighs heavy as my cup of sorrow can’t be half as large as theirs. Siblings, parents; those losses feel like appendages are missing, screaming in the hollows where they used to lie. What words could I share? No one wants a clown in somber moments.

He came here to live. Left the north to live by the sea. We knew the waves wouldn’t break forever, but when the tidal wave came bracing was hard. My family came together and that love shined brightest than it’s been since my Grandmother passed; I think it was her loss that started the rift. She was the anchor we all were tethered to, raging storm after storm with her light to guide us. She was a Saint; our North Star, and she steered us through the wreckage until we were all safe. But it’s hard to find home when the sky goes dark. When the lights go out. When the North star is lost.

Death is felt only by those left behind. The ones that take care after you’re gone. Do you understand?? The dead can’t mourn, only the living; the breathing. No one can read the mind, broken bits and tethered hearts; memories laid asunder in the emotional wreckage that follows. Though we all will share this cup of sorrow time and time again. This knowing should bind us all, make us reach out and twine our strings around and around each other. We are human; nothing but a mere animal with the heightened ability for compassion and comprehension. These are the gifts that make us so special. We must reach out; use them.

I remember rockets. Pictures. Christmas after Christmas at Grammas. Ribbon candy. Sweet gerkins. Playing under the huge dining room table with my brothers and cousins, hidden under draped tablecloth and claw feet pretending castles and monsters. The full house. Family to the brim, chairs pulled in circles, people all around. The way your entire face scrunched up when you smiled, your stories, and those damn wet willies my Uncles tortured us with that I secretly thought were hysterical.

And forever your smile. Forever your smile.