Unsaid Goodbyes.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that we didn't spend enough time together when I got older, because all I cared about was spending time with my friends, even though I knew how old you were. I should have not called my dad when I got bored of being at your house. I should have taken advantage of the fact that you could remember my name without my father's assistance. When Carolina didn't have to help you from your bed to use the bathroom.

I remember a lot.

I don't know if you do. There were days that I would spend all Sunday afternoon at your house, building forts with your furniture, eating cream cheese straight from the container. Then my dad would come home from work and I'd beg to stay for a little longer because I hadn't quite accomplished frisbee-ing with the yellow thing I had no idea had a real use.

I almost didn't go.

To your funeral, I mean. The night that you passed away, I knew it had happened before my mother had even explained to me. When my father calls at four o'clock in the morning to get us up and out of bed, something must be up. I couldn't imagine you, however fragile and tired you had become, another to be buried amongst so many, including grandma. My mom tried convincing me to go, to see you. People would be there for me, but I just kept crying and saying I didn't want to go.

They tried.

They really tried to keep me away from the sight of your lifeless body as you got pulled away in that hideously white van. But I saw them. They don't know how conspicuous they really are. I didn't cry that time. The thought of my father even allowing a tear to escape his eyes was impossible to me before that day. He trembled so hard, you fought so much. I don't know what you ever did that made them take you away like that. So unexpected, without warning, without a proper goodbye to people you loved.

I'm sorry.