Happy Birthday, friend. You’ve been gone from this world eight months, though I feel like I’ve just heard your laugh and sat across from you on your patio. It still feels like your on one of your vacations to Belize or Costa Rica. Sometimes when I think about you, I think that you’re still busy taking those evening classes. But then it hits me, and that little shocking electric feeling goes through my body and I remember.
Sometimes I imagine you watching me. I can hear that pitch your voice would go to when you’d get really excited. I can hear your laugh and your whispers. And I can hear you laughing out loud and saying, “Lauren!” or “Oh My God!” when you find out little secrets or interesting tidbits of life. It’s interesting, isn’t it? I often wonder what you’re thinking, what you’d say, what advice you would give. I wonder, too, if you’re proud of me or nudging me further or shaking your head. And it makes me smile, either way, because I imagine your expressions and that keeps you here in some way. I do wish, though, that I could just text you and say hi and maybe ask you, “who am I supposed to be?” “what does the music sound like in heaven?” “am I doing the right thing?” and “where do all of the things go that we misplace?”
It’s still not fair that you’re not here, that you’re life was taken way too soon. I used to think “that it was meant to be,” but I’m not sure I really believe that. It frustrates me that I can’t share new events, experiences and loves with you. I just have to believe that you know, and you get it.
If it weren’t for melanoma, we’d probably be leaving to celebrate your birthday at the beach house. But even though we’re not, I’m still celebrating you in the way I try to every day: By learning to be me completely, with tons of love and care and no fear or regrets. You are still with me every day, friend.
Happy birthday, gypsy girl.