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Saturday, Nov. 17, 2018
4:41 p.m.
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I remember when you sat in a chair in your kitchen near the oven because you were cooking for us and too weak to stand. We asked how we could help. For the first time and last time, you told us.

I remember reading right after you died that I should write down everything I remember about you. I remember not writing the things down because I didn't want to remember what I'd lost. Forgetting was easier.

I remember the time you must have known you were dying, they must have told you, because you wanted to see everyone while you still could. I painted. You drank more than you should have with your meds. You put on a creepy song featuring mostly static and it's like you were caught on a loop; you spoke gibberish and laughed. I gave you water and waited long enough so that I wasn't a jerk for leaving, then when I got home I collapsed on my fiance and cried. For hours.

I told you once, just once, I wasn't a fan of your guy. You already knew. You said he would be the perfect partner in five years. You would never be around to see it.

Once, we rolled, and you listened to me sing. You said you were a classically trained opera singer, and I was a good singer. I was high as fuck so I didn't stop to ask when you took lessons, or how that happened. You grew up poor after your mom whisked you away from your dad's abuse. I didn't think to ask and I guess now I'll never know.

We said we were music twins, but you hated country and rap. I hated that you said that because I think that's some white privilege classist bullshit, to say you like everything except country and rap. I meant to show you more rap so you would see, but we ran out of time.

You've been gone a year and a half now and I'm still waiting for the part where it's okay.

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