Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Daniel Lee Lewis, 1981-2000.

Twelve years with out you, buddy.  I think about you all the time.  It's been years since I've seen you, but the older I get, the more it feels like just yesterday that you were my downstairs neighbor.  I've stopped trying to imagine who you'd be now, and accepted you forever as 19-year-old you.

Two years ago, I felt serene and at peace about what happened to you.  Last year, I was underwater and didn't know each day it passed, my grief for my mom was so oppressive.  This year, I'm bobbing on the surface, sometimes afloat, often drowing.  I've been grieving my mom really hard lately, and have this weird "I've been here before" feeling.  I feel like I should be better at grieving because I've done it before, but I'm still just a mess this time around. I try to remember that it will get better and in time I'll be able to enjoy that I had her at all and not rail against her not being here now. That took me a long time with you.

After you were gone, I could feel death around the corner always.  It made me reckless and lazy.  It took years to wake up, and stop waiting for death--my own or of someone I love--around the corner.  I'm try to wake up again now.

Your mom sent me this song yesterday.  I know this song -- I heard it after my mom died.

The sharp knife of a short life.  


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