So you're really going ahead with this dead thing, huh? Seriously?
Because I was sure it had to be a joke. A bad joke. A horrible, fucked up, scary, sad, not-even-kind-of-funny joke. Like, if someone had played this joke on you, you'd have said "Somebody gonna die..." in that funny voice. Ironic, yes? Yes.
So not a joke. I get that. I then hoped it was some weird, stupid, so-real-you-pinch-yourself-and-turn-on-the-TV-to-forget-it dream. It's been almost a year now, after all, and I keep hoping to wake up like it was some bad season of Dallas and realize that no one shot J.R., and that my best friend isn't gone.
But you are. You're still gone. And it still doesn't make any sense.
I can see now, as I look back at the time close to your death, that people were being sent into my life to hold me up after you were gone, and for that I am grateful. To God, to the powers that be, to whoever. People like Deb, who listened, cried and consoled as I sobbed and fell apart over the phone line; and Sara, who hugged a stranger who couldn't have needed it more and became a fast true friend. Without them I would not have survived the last year. And not just them, many of my loved ones swooped in and cared for me, and were (and are) the kinds of friends and family you'd have been proud of. And I am sure you are settled in now, resting in love and peace, and feeling full understanding of why what happened had to happen. I wish you could share that with me, because we are not so lucky down here.
I miss you. I still miss you. More all the time. There are moments when I ache for you. The wounds' scars, that begin to form over time, are so frighteningly thin and frail, and it only takes a moment on any given day to rip them wide open, and the tears come again. And again. And again. A picture. A funny quote. The Cleveland Browns. Seeing Copper. Walking by a Game Stop. A song you would have loved. Dane Cook. G.I. Joe. Eddie Murphy. The name Murphy, period. Ink cartridge exchange programs. Tampons in a Target bag. Someone's nose moving when they talk. Calla lilies. The rent. Facebook. Myspace. TV theme songs. Red fingernails over boobs. My kids. My dogs. My husband. My wedding. Baby Einstein. My kids' T-shirts. CDs you burned for me. 278 wedding snapshots that you scanned for me before I ever had a scanner to understand how much fucking TIME that must have taken. Y-Knot. Poodle Skirts. King's. MST3k. Marlboros. Bare Minerals. Green eye makeup. Curly hair. Sex caves. Ambien. Psoriasis. Tiny feet. Shoes. Oh, and that girl. The girl in the white car at the gas station the other day, who looked so much like you, no matter which way she turned, that I had to stop myself from running to the car to prove to myself that it wasn't you. (The dog on her lap that looked like Waldo, the dog you got your parents 2 weeks before you died, didn't help.)
All of it, it all leads back to you, kicks me in the gut, and sends me through the momentary disbelief that you are still...really...dead. So much of our lives we shared, for so many years, and you're not here to share anything with anymore.
There is still a hole. There will always be a hole, Aim. Always.