You’re Not Dead

You left.

And the logical part of me knew it was right. You had to go out and find your own life. But– you left. And now these streets are haunted.

The trees we used to climb whisper sweet yearnings of dead childhood laughter. The tattered 'Clue' box taunts me from the top shelf of the closet. Echoes of arguments over whether Colonel Mustard was capable of murder turn to bittersweet banter in the back of my mind. My piano stands in the same place as always, but all I hear is the clanging of keys where there used to be music. Skinned knees, and I want to turn to you and make a joke about Dad’s “special band-aids.” So I pick up the phone and I call, but it’s the middle of the night 3000 miles from here. It clicks and your voicemail says you’ll call me back later. I want to hear your laughter in the same room again. I want to hear your voice echo on the walls as we sing together. I want to get a little too drunk and laugh too loudly around the fire until the neighbor yells, “Shut up, for God’s sake.” And then we’ll laugh even louder in our efforts to stifle our giddiness. I want to tell you you’re being an idiot, and then squeeze your shoulder and offer to help find the answer. You’re gone, but you’re not dead. I miss you terribly. Just out of reach. You are too far from me, and too close to my heart. And I’m working to make this place I’ve always lived feel like home again, but it’s just not home without you: my brother, my Irish twin, my best friend.

There’s a hole where you used to be.