Now That You’re Gone


After you died I opened every window of the Advent calendar you insisted we savor day by day, just like your Nana taught you, and ate every single chocolate under each flap in one go. It was the best way I could think to tell you to screw yourself for leaving me here alone.

For leaving me alone with my mother and your mother and their crying and her creepy photos from when you still had red hair and these f-cking casseroles from all the neighbors who yelled at us for playing our music too loud and my boss who it’s still not that funny that he keeps hitting on me but we used to laugh it off because we needed the money and the friends who are equally as afraid to be around me as they are to leave me alone and everything else that is crappy and isn’t you.

With you gone, I never remember to record Jon Stewart so we can watch them all one Saturday. I forget to rinse the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher, so they always come out crusty and still dirty just like you said they would.

Now that you’re gone, people keep asking me what I’m going to do with your clothes and all your things — if I need help boxing them up. I keep telling them that I was thinking of putting them in display cases and turning the living room into a museum in your honor, but they always look creeped out and I feel sick because that was the kind of thing that would have made you laugh.

I should probably mention that I’m so sorry, but I broke your ugly debate trophy from high school that you were so proud of, I smashed it against the floor, so it probably wouldn’t look very good on display even if I was serious about that idea. I was just so mad — I was wearing the sweater I wore the night you told me that you were sure you had spent your entire life looking for me and I knew I was safe forever — I was so mad because I know now that wasn’t true.

I was so mad because now you’re gone and not here and all I have are your shirts which are losing the smell of you and your damn dog who still sleeps on our bed, and the ring I found in your drawer that you never got to give me.

All I can do it lay here and hold this damn ring and imagine all the things I want to say to you but can’t, and how they all boil down to: F-ck you, I miss you, and I love you — oh, how I love you.

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image – comedy_nose