Thirty-Eight - Three Years

The anniversary of someone's death is always a day you just feel different. You can never just have a normal day or go about your business. You feel frozen, while the rest of the world goes on. Celebrating birthdays or wedding anniversaries, the start of a vacation, pay day. And you're just stuck reliving the day it happened. The phone call, the way your knees crumpled, the awful sound that pushed it's way past your lips, violently, as it fought with the lump in your throat. That lump - so giant, so heavy as it moves to your chest and sits like a rock on your heart. It took a long time not to live that day on repeat, and we'll all never escape it completely.

Charles Martin Goldberg, you sure are missed. There's a slight breeze today and often on days like this I breathe it in deep. I pretend that I understand the world and that I know it all. That pieces of you really could exist, somewhere. Not just the things you left behind, but things such as your smell, the same texture as the pads of your fingers, the same color as the warm, deep tone of your voice. These things couldn't have just disappeared too. Someday I will find them. I will reconnect these pieces and in some way, some form, you will be there.