The words on loop in my mind as I cried in my kitchen the day I found out you had less than two months left. The same words have been radiating through me today.
Not ready to say goodbye. Not ready to grieve you. I will never forget the first time I met you. You blatantly corrected me with a fierce tone. It terrified me, but a second later you made it clear how important it is to stand up for yourself.
It was the first of many lessons you would teach me on how not to give a fuck. At the beginning, I was afraid to let you in. Afraid to grow close then lose you if you and Nate broke up. How ridiculous of me. A little piece of truth, I was upset when you moved to Maine. I selfishly wanted to keep you where I could see you every weekend.
Family gatherings were less fun without your particular brand of snark and encouragement that I should definitely show my cleavage. That your life was slowly robbed from you. First by the extreme pain and then by the side effects of chemo. I was glad it helped with some of the burden you felt, even if the trip was bittersweet. Even in those pain-filled moments, you encouraged me to keep writing. Your light, your love, your pain.
Like the final words you left us with. This sucks. Cancer sucks. None of this is. But I love you so fiercely, and thus I have to grieve. I look forward to meeting with you again someday, in whatever form.
