I’m driving through Kansas City one summer afternoon and realize that I’m the closest I’ve been to the house you lived in since you died. It’s one of the first times I’ve driven myself from my hometown an hour away. When you were still here, I was too intimidated by the congested freeways I’d need to take to venture too far away from home on my own. Now I dream each day of driving across the whole country, seeing new visions of wildflower fields, mountains that paint the sky, and a secluded nightscape where my view of the stars wouldn’t be muddled by street lights. But right now memory and melancholy strike my mind as I pull into a grocery store parking lot to buy a quick dinner at the deli counter. The grief I felt over your loss never culminated into any melodramatic scenes of emotional upheaval that would win awards and praise if it were in a film. Those feelings usually come to me in small, mundane, reminders of you that make me tear up in crowded store aisles where I’m trying to focus on finding what I need quickly and not bumping into grocery carts. When I get in my car, I allow myself to cry-really, truly cry-and I have to pull over after my sunscreen drips into my eyes and makes them sting mercilessly. When I take a break to eat the sandwich I picked out, it’s so bland I think I might be coming down with something and losing my sense of taste.
It’s been nearly three and a half years now since you died in the hospital on my 22nd birthday. We were supposed to go out to my favorite Thai restaurant for a celebration dinner, but after we found out you were gone, nothing sounded good anymore and we ate boxed macaroni in front of the television. I never got to see you when you were in the hospital, and I wish I could have had the closure of a visit and a “goodbye.” Earlier that day, I’d discovered that I’d been the only person in my history class to achieve a perfect score on an exam, and I told my mother who then told you when she visited. I wish I could’ve spoken with you one more time, and it feels so oddly humbling to know I was in somebody’s thoughts and memories on their last days on earth. It reminds me of both my cosmic insignificance in the grand scheme of the world and also of the monumental importance of those close to you who few others will ever know of. You were the kind of individual who was always curious about the world around us and aiming to gain more knowledge, which is something I always try to emulate. You were also endlessly kind to everybody who knew you, and I could see this in the group of friends you kept throughout your life up until the very end. One of my first memories is of visiting you and sitting in a booth of the restaurant where you and your friends would have coffee and breakfast each morning. I eavesdropped into your conversations while I tore apart a cherry pastry with my fingers. I couldn’t make sense of what exactly everybody was talking about, but I felt sure that I wanted to be like you when I got older. Sometimes I see you in other groups of people I see in cafes or restaurants who are chatting amiably and seem to be having the most wonderful time. Today I am twenty-five years old and spend many of my days alone, and I hope that someday my wish from over twenty years ago comes true.
I wish that we could really talk about how my world looks today; I would trust any advice you have for me. A part of me worries that my younger self was too unappreciative and self-absorbed to truly know what I would be missing out on today in your absence. Your death taught me to always be mindful of how fragile human life can be and that I must never take others for granted. Memories of the past always haunt my mind when I am wondering what awaits in the lives of my loved ones and how much time we have together. I went on a vacation with my aunt and my mother where we spoke about you, and my aunt told me how much you loved me. I told her that I wished you knew that I loved you just as much, and she assured me that you did. A sense of relief washed over me then, and I hope that she was right and you knew how much you meant to us.