some kind of folliful

27

I'm warm and content when I wake up. But I know the days only just started and there's somewhere I needed to be. Somewhere I needed to go. And the hollow feeling in my chest follows me throughout the morning.

My clothes are on and my hair is thrown up messily and I'm out the door. My mother doesn't ask where I'm going. She knows. Everyone knows. Because today's the day. Another year.

The winding roads leading to you used to make me nervous. But now I swear I could drive them with my eyes closed. Up the hill and down again and then there's the turn and I'm there. I see you, off in the distance. You've been waiting a while.  A year.

Leaves crunch beneath my feet as I walk to you and sit. I apologize and there's no answer. Just the sound of the wind and the bite of the cold that lets me know I'm alone. Because you're not here. Not really.

Because the date on the stone says February 17th, 2012 and it's 2020. I'm twenty, not twelve. And the whole thing would be bittersweet if I could feel it. There's a feeling trying to crawl it's way up my throat. Something nasty and not very nice.

It chokes me up and I know, if there's one thing I can feel, it's pain.

I bid my farewell. It's a short stay, not really worth the drive. But I make it every year. I used to stay for longer. I'd talk and shout and cry.

But now I can't feel anything.

And you don't answer.

So I leave.