I never got to tell you how much you meant to me.

I never got to tell you how much fun I had at the park on that one unseasonably warm spring day.

I never got to tell you how your arms always felt like home and how your voice always carried the loveliest of advice.

I never got to say any of these things and so much more before I knocked on Death's Door.

In a hurried rush of words that tumbled out in a mess before I could muster the courage to stop, I told Death that I wanted peace, solace, and quietness. I told him that the chaotic din of the world had slowly become too heavy for my frail shoulders and that I needed my quick escape.

I looked in the corner of my dark and lonely room and only saw the shadows of those who had gone (but I failed to see the ones who had stayed and helped). That day, I begged and pleaded and bargained with Death for a deal too tempting for him to refuse. That day, I never got to say all I wanted to say.

I miss the wind and how it tickled my hair as it slyly brushed past.

I miss the charred taste of my food whenever I attempted to cook a dismal meal.

I miss the way laughter seemed to tickle and flow in streams happily out of my mouth and into the air.

I miss the way life could steal your breath away in an instant and leave you amazed.

I hope you won't forget me, or leave the memories too clouded in anger or guilt or dismay. I hope you realize that I never mean for things to stay this way or for them to cause you so much pain. I would wrap you in my arms the way you once did, with my mouth against your ear and tell you I am here. I wipe away your tears every day but I'm not sure you can tell, but please from here on forward, know that you are never alone.

Please, I cannot urge you more, do not knock on Death's door, for he will sweep you up from this Earth far too soon and you will miss all the things you never got to say.