The first word you ever uttered foreshadowed your entire life: more. I wish you could have felt like you had enough; that you didn’t have to chase something perpetually just out of reach.
I wrote you a letter the day before you died. I told you how proud I was of you, and how much I was looking forward to April when we could hike off into the wilderness and let nature be our medicine. I called mom but told her not to tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise. I even wrote out a playlist of some of the songs we listened to this summer on our trip to Enchanted Rock – the ones you said were ‘dope’ – but I haven’t been able to listen to them since.
When I went to the post office later that day to send it, it took every ounce of willpower not to send you a dorky message with an inside joke that nobody else would understand. But I didn’t want to ruin the treat of getting unexpected mail.
It turns out I arrived before the letter. It came through the door when the photographer who took your portraits was round, handing over the prints he never got to deliver to you in person. They looked great, but I couldn’t look at them for long. You have my face.
It’s only just starting to sink in that you’re gone, and I’ll have to go through the rest of my life with a piece of myself missing; and the feelings come from nowhere and grab hold and turn me into lead. Nothing was ever enough for you, but now I’m the one left wanting more.
All good things are wild, and free.