What if?

It all comes back to you, Nik. And your death. I create art in you memory, allowing my grief to sift from my fingers to my drawing pad. When something good happens, like buying that beautiful mandolin, I cry, “I’d rather have Nik.” When something bad happens, it kindles the embers of my sorrow, stirring up my tears like a tornado.

I try to change my life for the better, to do grand and noble things in your memory. And when I fail, as I often do, the wind howls through the hole that your death created, ripping my heart apart.

I have been accepted to Whidbey Island Writers, Nik, but have not, as yet, received a scholarship so that I can attend. It was a grandiose idea, a childhood dream. And if it doesn’t happen, I will be cut adrift. My schemes shattered and the idea that I could better myself to find some kind of meaning in your death destroyed.

I miss you, Nik. Every day.