A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own

Today is Mark's birthday.

I've sat at the computer thinking of what to say after that, but nothing seems right.

I haven't spent a birthday with you since 2004. The infamous 2-1. The one where I bought you a Three Wiseman shot, because you bought me one on my birthday.

I miss you so much. I used to think that it would get easier with time, that a scab would start to form eventually. Well it did form, but now it just hurts that much more when it's ripped off. I miss watching football with you, layering our OSU and ND articles of clothing so as to be loyal to both teams. I miss talking music with you, going to shows and dancing til we collapse. I miss grabbing a beer (or a lemondrop, minus the lemon or the sugar). I miss your Axl Rose impersonation. I miss your funky webbed feet. I miss your voice. I miss you.

But this is where it gets hard. I'm so mad at you too. I'm mad that we didn't get to walk at graduation together. I'm so mad that you never got to meet the love of my life, my future husband. I'm mad that you won't be at my wedding, or have a wedding or your own. I'm so mad that you haven't given me some sort of sign that you're okay, except for that fucked up dream where I was running after you on a dark street. I'm mad for being mad at you. I know you wouldn't ever want us to hurt this badly. But I am. And I will, because I don't see this ever going away.

So this is where I'm always left. No resolution. It's so hard to keep doing this. I hope someday I can figure it out. I'll listen to the recording I have of you playing "Change" - the song that was eventually played at your funeral - just to hear you fuck up that guitar solo, and maybe flick off the heavens, and then go to sleep with a smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

"But I know we can't all stay here forever So I'm gonna write my words on the face of today...."