There are very few days I remember quite so clear.
I remember my first heartbreak,
Crying on the drive home from school,
Closing my bedroom door and sliding to the ground,
Not caring to wipe the tears running down my face,
The weight of an elephant settling in my chest.
But even that pain is hard to compare to the day I lost you.
I remember the confusion of a fourth grader whose parents didn’t come pick her up from school.
And I remember sitting in my aunt’s house pestering her with questions.
Until finally my mom walked through her front door.
She had been crying, I could see her cheeks stained with trails of tears.
I hugged her because she looked like she needed it more than me.
She pulled me over to the couch and sat me down.
She took a deep breath, in preparation to force the words out.
You died in a car wreck, I wouldn’t see you this summer, in fact I’d never see you again.
I’d never be a bridesmaid in your wedding,
Or the godmother of your child,
Or a celebrant in your 21st birthday party,
Because you didn’t even live to make it out of your teen years.
I wouldn’t get to see your body,
Because not much of your flesh survived the impact,
So it would never truly feel like you were gone.
I stopped wearing the color pink,
Because it was your favorite.
And it made me think of the time you wore your pink bikini to that wedding rehearsal,
Insisting you had nothing else in your closet to wear.
We had a special handshake,
Lots of laughs and little moments shared.
You were my role model, my favorite.
Now I let my mother hug me.
She could see I needed it more than her,
Because the day I lost you
Would be forever imprinted into my memory.
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