Red Wine and Sad Music

Your birthday is actually Thursday, Mona. I know that. But I can’t hold myself together long enough to wait—can’t sit here counting down the hours to the day I have to properly feel it. You’re just not here. That’s the whole dumb fact of it. You’re not here and we miss you and none of the words I keep reaching for do anything about that.

I’m in the bathtub staring at the ceiling. Steam drifts in little wisps up there. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or bathwater running down my forehead. The ugly thoughts are still circling when she comes in, shuts the door quietly behind her, and climbs into the tub with me. Marci—do you think my tits are too small? She smiles. Pours champagne. Pulls me close. The thoughts scatter. She kisses my neck and I feel okay for a little while.

I keep going back through the old posts, clicking through your playlist, thinking about all the days we didn’t get to have together—and the reason is still as senseless as it ever was. That senselessness still hurts. You were extraordinary. You are extraordinary. All my words disappear into the distance anyway, Monalein. I just want you to know how much we love you—and then I want you to do that smile of yours, the one that says everything’s going to be alright. Because when you smile like that, I believe it.