It’s been a little over a week now since you’ve left. And with the exception of two or three tears that barely made it to the bottom of my chin, I haven’t cried.
Amidst her painful sobs, I listened to your mom tell you to thank all of us for being there. I braced myself as your husband attempted to take off your wedding ring, so that the nurse could perform post-mortem procedures. And I watched as two men dressed in black suits wheeled you to their car.
I saw the trunk door slowly lower and shut, and the car drive off. Yet, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I’m a cryer. You know this. I’ve cried for far less, like the Sarah Mcloughlin SPCA commercial and men that don’t even deserve my tears. This is why we dubbed each other “emo sisters”. I held your hair while you threw up, and you held ME when I cried over my first love. So how is it that I was able to fully function that night? Why am I not in fetal position in a corner of my moms apartment? How come I can smile, and laugh, and think about my petty problems?
Am I heartless? Do I not care enough? What is wrong with me?
These are serious questions I’ve been asking myself.
I don’t know what you’re doing up there. But I hope you’re having fun. I hope you’re watching Jason. I hope you’re scaring all your friends. I hope you kiss your parents and brother good morning, and lay by your husband at night. I hope Tupac isn’t an asshole, and Biggie is as funny as all his ho’s claimed he was. I hope Aaliyah is just as beautiful in person. I hope your heaven looks like home. And I hope you know that just because I’m not crying, it doesn’t mean I love you any less.