I missed you today.
More than I have in a while,
more than I ever thought I would.
When you left it’s like a piece of me,
no, all of me,
left with you.
But while you’re flying through the stars
I’m still on earth.
I miss you everyday
but some days are worse than others.
Days like this,
when my haunted apartment throws around your belongings
are the worst.
I want to fly with you, mom,
but I can’t seem to touch the stars.
I cried today.
Hard and heavy,
like the big oak table in your dining room,
in dad’s dining room.
It’s dad’s house now.
You would hate it.
There are pieces of you scattered everywhere.
I’m scattered everywhere.
I cry everyday.
Sometimes at night,
silently while everyone is sleeping.
Sometimes in the morning
during my first cigarette of the day.
I smoke now, mom.
I’m sorry,
but I had no other choice.
Everything has changed since you left.
Your chair is in the garage.
Your blanket is on my couch.
I don’t think dad can bear the sight of your things anymore.
And I think I torture myself with them.
Everything I own holds a memory of you.
And I’ve created memories,
for the things you’ve never seen.
I still can’t believe you’re gone.
It’s been five months
and you missed so much.
I got married, mom,
but you knew that.
It was beautiful.
Everyone says you were there
but I couldn’t tell.
I wish I could.
Sometimes I feel you with me,
sometimes I don’t.
But I am always hurting.
I will always be hurting.
I missed you today, mom.
And I will always miss you.