It’s been ten years since you died, but it’s been more than ten years since I’ve seen you last. I still see you in my dreams occasionally. The last time I saw you, you apologized to me, but I wasn’t sure why.

You said you were going to work on getting better. That you had hit rock bottom, and you never wanted to experience it again.

You took me to a bar in the city with paint splatters on the wall and we shared dinner. I think we held hands.

You told me what it felt like hitting your lowest of lows, waking up in your car with vomit all over you, not sure what had happened to you the night before.

When you hugged me, it didn’t feel like goodbye, but it was.

We used to talk on the phone as you painted your nails. I’d listen to the sirens in the distance and wonder if we lived different lives. If we could ever experience a world the same way.

I’d braid your hair on Friday nights; other girls would put your hair in pigtails, but I liked a single braid.

I remember lying my head on your chest, your hairy stomach soft underneath me. You never complained about the weight of me.

I remember you playing the guitar at night. I remember listening to Fleetwood Mac with you and thinking all our thoughts were worth writing down.

I never took a picture with you because I thought I was ugly, unphotogenic.

I remember you telling me you played me the guitar because you didn’t know the words to say.

It’s been ten years since you died, and even though I have a guitar, I still don’t know the words to say.

I never said goodbye.

She told me you loved me. That you always loved me. I must have hurt you because I laughed when you tried to kiss me the first time.

But now, you are buried and gone, and I’m here. You always played me “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. I guess I just wish you were here. I feel like we could talk all night and maybe I’d let you play me the guitar. And maybe you’d let me braid your hair.

It’s been too long, and I never said goodbye.

Isabelle Palerma