I Swear You Will Be Fine

Sometimes I think grief and guilt are best friends. With one comes the other. I feel grief every day because I mourn the loss of my older brother, I mourn the loss of someone who shone so brightly, I mourn the loss of my best friend. I feel guilt when I remember that I didn’t even hug him the last time I saw him, I didn’t really talk to him that much until three years ago, I didn’t even have his number, I didn’t call him to come to the party. I feel both grief and guilt, but guilt more.

Guilt is like remembering maybe I could have done something to stop it, stop him. Guilt revisits me when I’m sitting alone at recess and I remember my last words to him weren’t an “I love you” but instead a “When will I see you again.” Guilt swallows me whole in the late nights when I remember all those times I wasted the time we had together making fun of him or teasing him. Guilt blossomed this deep ache in my chest, one that makes me feel I’m going to explode every single day.

In the middle of the day, it could have been the best one I’ve had all week, but then I remember that you can’t experience good days on Earth anymore, Josh.

Grief expands guilt. I can’t imagine being here for your birthdays while you aren’t. Grief visits me in the mornings, but guilt stays the whole day. Guilt hits me so hard it’s as if it’s choking me when I think about the fact that you don’t get to celebrate a milestone, but I do.

Sometimes, I go a whole day without crying. I even laugh a little. I feel a little bit more like myself again. And then guilt creeps in—because how can I have good days when you aren’t here? Guilt is a voice that tells me every day that one day I get to live is one you don’t. And I forever will feel guilty knowing all of this. But for now, I promise to live for you, Josh.

I love you so much, more than ever now. I miss you, Josh.

I love you,
Shyla