I remember when she walked in and told me you didn’t make it.

I remember trembling.

I remember the car ride.

I remember the way your face looked. Dull.

I remember us waiting for you to open your eyes.

I remember wearing your necklace and wrapping myself in your clothes because it smelled like you. They don’t smell like you anymore.

I remember not remembering for the next two months until we put your little black box in the wall at Arlington.

I remember the first dream you visited me in. You sat on the couch crying as I sat on the stairs crying. I was angry because you left me. I was angry because you were crying when you’re the one who gave up and left. “I just really miss you,” is all I heard before I woke up crying. I just really missed you, too.

I remember when Mom screamed in the basement because someone had touched her shoulder, yet she was the only one down there.

I remember coming downstairs one evening and seeing the place where you sat. It was indented like someone was sitting there in that moment. I sat on the couch next to that spot and cried because I wanted so badly to just hold you again.

I remember the months going by and the house changing.

I remember painting the shared room turned single occupant a light aqua.

I remember painting the living room red.

I remember to always check the guns you left for me before handling them.

I remember the prayer we said at night.

I remember the prayer we said at the table, but I can’t remember how it precisely goes.

I remember getting on anxiety medication and the dreams you met me in distorted your face.

I remember fighting the sheets, fighting my mind, just to seem like everything was normal in that period of increased medication.

I remember admitting the night terror and reducing the milligrams.

I remember when you came back to me in my dreams looking just the same as you had almost six years ago.

I remember that I once had a Dad, but I don’t remember what it feels like to have a Dad.

I remember taking Mom back to Arlington for the first time in four years, while it was my fifth time visiting you again.

I remember Mom and I crying on the bench.

I remember feeling relief because I wasn’t the only one still distraught.

I remember all the dreams you visit me in.

I remember the dream I had last week. You and Mom were planning on selling the house. My childhood house. The house I have never left. I was angry. I was upset. I couldn’t understand why you both thought getting rid of so many memories was the best option. I couldn’t understand why you cared when you were the one who left.

I remember waking up from that dream and realizing that I still haven’t moved on.

I remember waking up and you were still dead.