I’ve tried to write about you dozens of times.
But nothing I say can do it justice.
I have memories, I do, but they are all fuzzy and weak.
I remember you dangling me from my ankles, held upside down, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I remember you folding me into the couch, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Baby toes in the green soft grass, joking with you, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I remember late night calls, hidden candy bars, silly nicknames.
David Letterman. Sammy dudes. Endless Football.
I remember being woken up in the middle of the night because you crashed your car.
I remember Emergency rooms. X-Rays. I remember when we found out you were sick.
I remember your balding head. Too sick to play. Swollen feet.
I remember your funeral. The song that played as we processed in.
I remember hearing you were gone, saying “why me” repeatedly.
Finding hidden candy. Ash trays left around the house. All of the sad looks for months and months.
It’s been a lifetime without you. I still don’t know how to stop missing you. I may never be whole because of your absence. I am trying, I promise I am trying for you.