Three years ago today, I woke up with a banging headache to accompany my raging hangover. After the party I had thrown the night before I wasn’t at all surprised, but the biggest shock was yet to come. As I was cleaning up I got a peculiar phone call from my mother. She said she was dropping in on me – from three hours away; definitely out of the ordinary. After buying myself a few minutes, I rushed around throwing away cans, bottles, and lots of cigarette butts (it’s a nasty habit that I don’t partake in or condone but yet they were strewn around my patio anyways).
When I answered the door she seemed quite normal but when she sat down her face morphed into something I had never seen. I didn’t believe her and swore she was lying. The last time I saw him was in a hospital bed without a knee in his leg – it was the most coherent conversation I had had with him in fifteen years. That had been about a year before I saw my life shatter and fall before my eyes. Being the workaholic that I am, I went to work that day and numbly made arrangements for my absence to take care of all my business.
Three years later and I have grown so much and really learned what it means to have his blood running through my veins. In his memory I bought two yellow balloons and wrote a little note to him with my sharpie. Sending them up to heaven, I felt the weight on my shoulders attached to the ends of the string; watching it all float away was so calming.