I struggle, each day.

I’m afraid that I don’t have it in me anymore. That I don’t have the power to make you go proudly quiet as you did when you read what I naively wrote on my blog as a teenager, and then a young adult.

Someone told me the other day that I had changed since the last time I met them, which was before you passed away.

I agree. I cannot write freely, with abandon, because you aren’t there to read the words. We tried to wrap up loose ends, but I never imagined I was letting go of such a big part of who I imagined myself to be. You took a part of me away with you. You took the words away. Maybe you knew the words would only bear pain. Tiny little cuts that would reopen memories and a floodgate of tears, as they are right now.

On my wedding day, I looked up at the sky just before I entered the church. What would you have said to me, before I began my walk down the aisle? Your voice is in videos online, I just need to type your name in and your words will fill up the room. But I cannot bring myself to do that.

I would write till my hands give up if the words could bring you back. I just need to keep trying.

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