I Haven't Accepted That You're Gone

It's been 5 months.
I haven't accepted that you're gone. No. I haven't. When the idea comes to mind, I push it away. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head from side to side until the thought goes away to someplace else temporarily. It's not really working, I know. But it's become a bad habit.

You're not really gone.
It's just that I haven't seen you awhile. I'm just away again. I'm in Costa Rica or Thailand or El Salvador or wherever the fuck it is that I've gone this time instead of choosing to be with you or Dad or Mom or Danielle or Christina or Amanda or Sam or my friends. And you're still at Uncle Joe's house in Long Island.

You're probably cooking in the basement and drinking bitter coffee. And whistling. You're a really good whistler. You're good at so many things. Everything really. ...
And you'll be coming to our house soon. You'll be sitting on my couch and I'll be coming home, too. I'll try not to bother you about biting your nails. And I'll beg you to come for a walk with me and you will curse and say no and refuse over and over and pretend you're annoyed. And eventually you'll get up and come and probably end up skipping down the sidewalk. And you'll talk to all the strangers we pass and you'll make jokes and laugh and you'll say how nice the walk is.

I have your necklace. The one you wore that day at Aunt Linda's barbecue.
I really love it. And I pick it up when I see it and I hold it in my hand. And I can see your hand holding it when you took it off from around your neck and looked at it deeply the way I look at each of my pieces that hold sentimental value and memories.

You didn't buy things.
You collected beautiful pieces that gave you inspiration and made you wonder.
I like that you taught me that without telling me directly. You just taught me through your ways and the look in your eyes when you talked about your porcelain dog or the painting on your wall in your house in Florida or the necklace.
Those things made you wonder.
My life is about wonder.
Thank you, Grandma.

So I have your necklace, don't worry. I hardly put it on, I have to tell you. I do the thing again. The squeezing of my eyes shut and shaking of my head while I hold it in my hand. Because if I put it on that means that you're not wearing it. And I don't like that thought.

You had it on that day at the barbecue. And everyone was admiring it. And I told you how much I liked it, too. We were sitting on the bench next to each other and you were in a bit of pain from the tumor and you mentioned it a few times, but then you'd come back to the conversation and making people laugh. And so you said "oh, you like it that much? Here, take it."

And you took the necklace off and handed it to me for a minute or too. And then you looked at it again and said to me matter-of-factly, "You know what. I'm still alive. I'm still gonna wear it. Give it back."

And I loved this about you. You wanted to live. You enjoyed it. All the moments. It always came back to laughter. Boldness. Brilliance. And laughter. You knew how to work hard and enjoy life, too. Always. And you weren't afraid to say whatever the hell was on your mind.

Not a lot of people live like that Gram, you know that?

Will you promise to always remind me how to be like this?

Promise to remind me to live like you did. The working hard. The enjoying life. The laughter. The "not trying to please the whole freaking world". Just being open and honest and saying whats on your mind. And loving. A lot. Along the way.

Remind me often.