One Hundred Letters for James

037

037:

Interring

The day they buried my father was one of the worst in my life.

I wore a horrible grey dress with black polka dots and it was much too happy for the occasion. My Mary Janes pinched at my feet and my mother had stuck a ton of pins into my hair earlier.

You were there, which was great. I wasn't all alone. But it seemed like my mother was. She was far off, in another world, probably one where her husband wasn't dead.

I cried and cried and cried that whole day, feeling like they shouldn't bury him, because that sealed the deal. He wasn't coming back.

I don't think Ryan's ever coming back. I think he might hate me, hate me for what I've done and what I've tricked him into thinking, thinking that I loved him. I can never hold on tight enough.

I let my dad slip away. I let my mom slip away. I let you slip away, I let Ryan slip away, I let Farah slip away, I let myself slip away.

And I hate myself for it.

That same day I cried myself to sleep. I think that was one of the first times it ever really hit me that all was not right with the world; people died, people got hurt, people did things they shouldn't do. I do things I shouldn't all the time. It's a habit; not calling people back, not calling people in general, not eating regularly, crying, wanting you. The last one is something that's especially come out in recent years.

I think if I met you now, instead of so long ago, I'd hate you. I'd think you were a jerk, which you are.

But I wasn't fortunate enough to meet you now; I met you during a terrible time in my life, when people died and people drank too much alcohol and money and patience ran out.

I miss my mom. But I especially miss my dad.