I woke up thinking about you & the life you lived.
If I’m honest, I mostly think about the day that it ended.
I remember that phone call in painful detail. We were in bed and I’d been wide awake for hours in a panic.
That dream, the premonition, had already landed on me.
I was in a house on fire, screaming to Uncle Paul that we needed to get out.
When the phone rang, my stomach sank; an early call from my dad was a sign I might have been right.
He uttered the news that your spirit had left, & it crushed mine.
In the overwhelm, I slid out of bed and onto the carpet. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried like that before or since.
The howling, the rawness of having lost you.
In the days that followed, someone told me the way to understand losing you with sterile science.
That with medication changes, suicide is more likely to win.
That you’d made up your mind, and no one could have changed it.
We know that’s not true.
We trusted you’d be safe in that hospital room - they even had ‘watch’ in the title of the unit.
We found out later that you’d been suspended between the sky and the earth for at least 8 hours before they found you.
I was in the same bed when I heard that news, & again, the flattening overcame me.
You were honest and said you wanted to die, & they failed you.
The settlement came & jobs were lost & none of it brought you back.
This year, I want to spend the anniversary of your birth remembering the aliveness that was you.
I still can picture the first time I met you; your warm, striking face. Your graceful height. Your heart melting laugh.
I remember clamoring to sit by you at the dinner table, & how much awe I had for you
I wear my hair long the way you used to.
I still say that if I ever had anyone I wanted to be like when I grew up, it was you.
The endless jokes, your sass, your honesty, your fierce love; that’s who I want to remember.
You taught me it’s possible to be yourself unapologetically, even when that meant telling us that you wanted to die.
I wish we had more time for visits & bullshitting & you offering your advice on love & life.
I’m grateful,
For the tenderness, the phone calls, the welcoming of all of me I always felt with you.
I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I’m living, my auntie you’ll be.
As I type those words, my body remembers the first time I wrote them days after you transitioned.
Thank you for being a light when I wasn’t ready to be seen yet.
Thank you for loving me so completely.
I carry you with me always, sweet Billy.
