Jill

It has been nine years.

Every so often you cross my mind. I know that I should visit you more often, but I can’t seem to bring myself to get in my car and drive.

You’re a faint memory in my mind:

Blonde hair, bright blue eyes

And a laugh so light.

You called me “baby girl”

And you were always there

To listen to me whine

Whine about life, about boys, about school, and about everything else in between.

You teetered on the line of mentor and friend, time spent between cups of blueberry coffee and donuts to the point where I can’t drive past a Dunkin Donuts without seeing your face.

You were so selfless, a rock for everyone until your blonde hair began to fall out in chunks.

You took a razor

To your scalp

And hid behind a scarf.

Your eyes, once so bright

Became less full of life.

You spent your final days locked away in a tiny apartment, surrounded by your family.

I’ll still remember the day you left, how I received the news over an Instagram post. I couldn’t believe the news, how cancer took away one of the best people I knew.

It’s been nine years

And every day I wished I had called you more, visited you more, or something before you departed this world.

Every day, I still struggle with the hole you left in my heart. I wish you could see me now. I hope you would be proud of me.

It gets easier, now, to think of you. I see pieces of you in your sister. God, I wish you could see us now, how we finally get along and how we love each other so. I know you would be so proud of us.

Nine years, nine fucking years since you died.

And I am still

Haunted by your

Laugh.