11 - a deceased person you wish you could talk to

Dear you,

I wish you were still here. It's kind of ironic that this number is a year younger than you would be right now, and a year older than you'll ever be. Tuesday will be two years and a month since you died, and I wish I could say something corny like I think about you every day, or everything I do, I do with you in mind, but I don't. I guess in my head, you're still here. I never got a chance to mourn; it wasn't something I let myself do, and it most certainly wasn't something my parents were about to help me with.

I guess the reason I wish I could talk to you is to tell you how sorry I am. I know I don't have any need to be, that nothing I did could have caused or prevented anything, but I am. Our situations were exactly the same, and for the life of me, as much as I try to understand it, I don't know why it was you and not me. I know it's wrong to say that sometimes I wish it was me instead of you, but I do. I had four years on you, and a family that was already broken.

I also want to say goodbye. I never got to. I never let myself feel anything, and goodbyes were part of that package. I wonder if I wouldn't be as fucked up now if I had been able to say goodbye; not just to you, but to everyone who's up there with you. (Which, as I come to think of it, is also eleven.)

And I want to know what it was like. I know that's morbid, but I do. I want to make sure you weren't scared, I want to make sure that you weren't in pain, but I also want to know for myself, so that I know when my time comes, and I want to know that dying wasn't you giving up. That you were fighting until the last second, and in the end, you just... lost. I know it sounds bad, but I just... I want to know. I want to be able to say goodbye, and I want to be able to say I'm sorry, and that I love you, and ask you if you did all that you could.

But mostly I just miss you.

Love,
me.