It’s nearly been five years and two months since I saw you last, five years since I received the news, four years and 51 weeks since I was supposed to see you again, four years and 49 weeks since I stood in St. Patrick’s Cathedral before those who knew, loved, and respected you.
Five years and two months from when we drove around La Quinta together, when you warned me the car needed to cool down in the desert heat and got it put in my name so I could come and visit you more. Five years and two months from when we walked around Target together, with your arm on my shoulder, supporting you physically and me emotionally. Five years and two months from when you came out into the living room late at night, with an ear pillow in hand, making mom and I laugh like never before.
Five years from when I received that call, when I collapsed to the ground and all air escape from my lungs in a screaming cry. Five years from when my sister called for me through the phone “Megan, are you okay” and I swore my ribs no longer had anything internal to protect. Five years from when I was shaking uncontrollably but needed to drive to the beach, the location where you raised me to safely lose my thoughts with every crashing wave. Five years from when I shrunk down to being a little kid again, needing to be carried with a teddy in hand to make it to the dining hall. Five years from when I realized my biggest regret of not calling back.
Four years and 51 weeks from when I was supposed to drive through the mountains and see you. Four years and 51 weeks from when I was planning on telling you all about school, San Diego, and my adventures. Four years and 51 weeks from when I was supposed to be wrapped in your arms again, when we’d go out to dinner and you’d rotate glasses of water to ensure mine was always filled, with a smile in your ice blue eyes. Four years and 51 weeks from when I planned to answer all the questions from the voicemails you left.
Four years and 49 weeks from when I walked down the streets of New York in black satin and lace, underweight and overwhelmed. Four years and 49 weeks from when my gaze was as cold as the marble beneath me. Four years and 49 weeks from when I stood at the podium of New York’s most famous cathedral, recounting the stories of your love, which I would ask you to tell me repeatedly, when I recited your favorite quote, speaking of pressing on, when I was unsure if I could. Four years and 49 weeks from when I shook hands and heard stories of your life well before my time, wishing you were there to hear your laugh and see your smile.