I'm sitting in my bed, crying as I write this.  I'm crying because it hurts so much.  I'm always surprised by how much I can still miss you after all of this time.  Sometimes it's the moon that makes me tear up.  Other times, like tonight, a million small things have happened that have led to this moment.  I don't remember what any of those small things were.  One minute I was writing a paper, and the next I was searching your obituary.  And then your page on the funeral parlor's website.  And then your grave.  Did you know you can do that?  Look up a gravestone?  No one has taken a picture of yours, but the first four numbers to find it are 1211.  My birthday is 12-11.  I won't forget that.

Then I'm googling the driving distance because I almost wish I could pack up the dog and drive to see you tonight.  Like seeing your gravestone will settle some of this unease.  But you're five hours away and I work in the morning.  And there's always something that comes up.  Always something that takes priority.  That's the hard thing about living.  No matter how heavy our ghosts are, we have to keep moving.

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