It's been a little more than a month since you died. It doesn't hurt so bad anymore and sometimes I can think about you without crying, but not always.
I found a bunch of CDs that belonged to you. There must be a thousand or more. My dad wants me to sell them online and at first I didn't mind it so much.
But now, I feel guilty because it feels like I'm selling pieces of you. And I know you didn't even use them that much anyways. It still doesn't feel entirely okay.
I think I'll go through them and keep the ones that remind me of you. I might not listen to them, though. At least not yet. I don't think I could do it without crying.
I'm crying now and I know you wouldn't want me to, but I am. If you were here then you would give me a hug. I miss your hugs most of all.
For other people it would be your laugh they miss, or maybe the way you served everyone else before taking your dinner. But I can't seem to remember your laugh. I remember your hugs. And I miss them.
You've always been there, but I never took them time to recognize that until it was too late.
I'm sorry that I'm selling your CDs. Don't worry, I'll keep all the Beatles CDs. I know those were your favorite.
