Tomorrow is your birthday. This day last year we celebrated your twenty fifth. We ate at our favorite breakfast place (ALRIGHT) with some of our friends, and then returned home to prepare to have people over to eat and drink and celebrate you.
This week of the year will always be yours. Forever. I can’t imagine even fifty years from now hitting June 3rd and not pausing for at least a few minutes to think of you and remember us. There’s been a lot that’s been shitty in the last four months, a lot that’s been hard in the past eight, and a lot that’s been difficult in the last two years.
I’ve been so mad at you for so many things. None of it really matters. I’ve been mad at myself. We’re still tied together in some capacity even for as much as both of us try to break those ties; they’re going to take time to dissipate. I see how you’re acting now. And I know it’s hurt. And I know it’s fear. And I know it’s confusion and disorientation. And yet, the more you sink into those things, somehow, the angrier I get with myself, that I could have ever had faith in you to be anything other than who you are now.
But that’s not fair, or true or right.