You are the first one who comes to mind when I awake; every morning, you are my first thought. I open my eyes, and I say to myself, “Aunt Denise is dead.” I have to remind myself that the last time I saw you in a hospital bed with tubes stuffed down your throat wasn’t a god awful nightmare.
I have never felt such a loss. You’re the first to affect me in such a way that I lose my breath in the middle of the day–the first to keep me awake at night with the sound of your silent laughter. The sound of your laughter is unforgettable.
I know what I meant to you. And I know you felt how much I loved you–that’s not even an issue for me. The issue is that I can’t keep hugging you, looking at you, laughing with you. The issue is that I don’t have anyone anymore who understands the relationship between me and my mother. I don’t have you to love me when my mother is angry with me.
But I do. Even as I write this, I know you love me, and understand me. Because I feel you in the night, when angels visit. I feel you when I sleep, when you tip-tow though my dreams.