grasping onto something i cannot see

twenty (end)

"how is this supposed to help me?" dan asked indignantly.

"writing is beautiful in that, it helps us release emotions that we can't express physically," she said. "write down everything -- tell him the things you never got to."

dan felt a tear slip down his cheek. "it's not fair."

"i know it isn't fair," she said. "illness isn't fair; death isn't fair. but life's unfairness is something that everyone shares equally. sometimes to cope, you have to break down and slowly build yourself back up."

"i miss phil."

"i know you do, dan."

"he died and i told him not to."

"i'm sure if he had a choice, he wouldn't have left," she said. "but he was very sick and hiding it from you was his way of not hurting you until absolutely necessary. don't you think that's sweet, in a way?"

"yes," dan replied. "he was always so sweet and i never got a chance to show him how much i appreciated it."

"then show him now," she said. "write everything down. from beginning to end. it will help, dan, i promise you."

dan stood up and left, without saying much as a goodbye. he walked outside, feeling sunlight pierce through his eyelids in a way he was trying to learn to love again. it seemed as if the sun shone brightly every day now.

when he arrived home, he walked into his bedroom and opened a drawer, pulling out a leatherbound journal and a pen.

the journal still smelled like phil. dan ran his hand over the familiar inscription: "no ocean made of ink nor sky made of paper can possibly create the words needed to express how much i love you."

dan felt tears escaping his useless eyes, but he began to write anyway:

i was only three years old when god decided he hated me...