written in 2018, just slightly edited june of 2026.
Year 0
I feel like I’ve been screaming for the last 28 hours. Two days ago, we were happy. Today, it's just me. I'm not happy. I'm not sad. I'm just screaming.
Year 1
It’s been torture. I don't know how else to describe it. Since the last time I wrote to all of you, I've felt like there was something constantly sucking in air inside me, some sort of horrible, wailing cavity. I thought I was maybe going to have a heart attack at any moment, every moment, for 365 days in a row. I broke down in the grocery store yesterday because the clerk looked like one of you. She had short brown hair and a wiry frame. You know which one she reminded me of. I hid by the bread until someone happened to call her back into the storeroom, and then I ran out of the store and didn’t stop running til I reached the park.
Year 2
The shrieking cavity opens back up sometimes, but it's quieted a bit this year. Part of me wishes it hadn't. I realized yesterday that I couldn't remember your voices very well anymore. I watched some old videos to try to remind myself. The emptiness opened up for a moment or two, and then sealed itself back under my skin again. Today I have to go to the extension office two towns over for work. I think my supervisor is convinced that a change of scenery will do me good. My therapist thinks the same thing. I haven’t told either of them that you would have agreed. You all took me on so many day-trips the year after my mom died. I still sometimes find candy wrappers that one of you shoved deep into the cushions of the driver’s seat. Every time I find a new one, I lock it in the glove compartment.
Year 3
I'm somewhere new now. I'm someone new now. I know new people and I've been trying new things, and nobody here knows about what happened. I can't remember the color of anybody’s eyes, the particular texture of anybody’s hair, the smell of anybody’s favorite food. I'm trying to forget more this year. The cavity is buried under 10 feet of concrete. If there’s wailing still happening, I cannot hear it. I guess you were right. All I really needed was a change of scenery.
Year 4
How is it that every year is so different? I saw a girl on the subway last week that reminded me of one of you. Short brown hair and a wiry frame. You know which one she reminded me of. I smiled at her when she pushed by me to get off at her stop. I ate some pasta downtown that all of you would have loved. I heard a story at work that two of you would have laughed at. The memories came back to the surface not long after we last spoke, the emptiness and the cavity pressing back up against my barriers until you had a real screaming voice again. I don't know if you’re even memories now. It feels like you’re just out there, hiding in the crowds of strangers in the city, and sometimes you want me to see you, and on those days I consider myself lucky.
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