for stacy, six years later

Dear Stacy,

It’s been six years. It seems impossible that it’s been that long, but that’s exactly how long it’s been. Every year on this day, I write something, and I think at first it was a coping thing but now I’m not really sure. Maybe it still is a coping thing, I don’t know. I know that I still miss you, for what it’s worth. And on this anniversary of the day you died, I always think of you. I think of you at other times too, of course, but this time of year brings back a lot of memories so even though I think I’m relatively healthy and well-adjusted, these days tend to serve as a reminder of how much it fucking sucks that you can’t be around. That’s all.

The world is a different place now. Justin Timberlake is an actor these days.

My Polish boyfriend you thought I was going to marry is now married to somebody else. It’s something I found out on Facebook. Yeah, we have Facebook now. It’s kind of like MySpace except not. I Facebook a lot (yeah, it’s also a verb) from my phone, because phones these days are more than just talk and text. I could manage my entire life with my phone, I think, because it’s an iPhone, which is another invention that came along since you’ve been gone, but seriously, that thing? It does everything, except bring me coffee in bed. It’s a weird thing, though, because you know how I hate phones? I’m on my phone all the time. Sometimes I go out with friends and there’s usually a point in the evening when none of us are talking to each other because we’re all on our phones. Facebooking. About how we’re all out together.

The world is a very strange place.

If I were to have coffee in bed, I’d have to get it myself, which I did this morning, in fact. I’m sitting here in bed with my computer and a cup of coffee and I have managed not to pour coffee all over everything. I’m a bit more coordinated now than I used to be, I think because I’ve changed. I don’t move like an apology anymore. You know what I mean. I’m still single though. I mean, if we’re not going to be neighbors with incredibly stylish children, then I don’t see what the rush is. That guy you said I shouldn’t date because you didn’t like him? I dated him. You were right, I shouldn’t have. You were right about a lot of things.

Things have changed a lot. They’re still changing, to be honest, and I’ve missed your perspective. I feel fairly unsettled lately, and there are days when I’ve wished you were here to verbally smack some sense into me, which you were always good at doing. I could use that. I always have to be so steady and together and I don’t feel like I’m either anymore. But I guess it’s not how you feel but how you behave, eh? I’ll manage. I always do. But I get tired sometimes. I never admit that, but it’s true. These days I’m at a low and tired point, but that’ll change too. Everything changes.

Everything changes.

The point is that six years ago, on a snowy Wednesday, you were killed in a car accident on your way to work, and six years later, it’s a sunny Wednesday and I still miss you. I miss your ridiculously high-pitched laugh and I miss your paradoxically perfect yet somewhat illegible handwriting. I miss going with you to Walmart even though I fucking hate Walmart. I miss our dinner and movie nights. I miss that you understood me and still thought I was cool anyway. I miss a lot of things. It gets easier over time, but it never goes away. I miss you.

Tonight I’ll go out with a few people and have a drink in your honor, and we’ll talk and we’ll laugh. I’ll wear that amber pendant you gave me because it’s my way of taking you along, as illogical as I know that is. Six years ago, I didn’t know how I was going to make it without you, friend, and yet somehow I’ve done okay, I guess. I got a dog. That’s probably the only truly smart thing I’ve done in these past six years. She’s a really cool dog, even if she does mostly ignore me.

I love you, and I’ll do what I can to give that love to others who are here in this weird, different world. It’s the best I can do.



One thought on “for stacy, six years later

  1. I’m glad you write this every year. I’m glad you had such a good friend, and I’m glad she had one too. I’m sorry your friend died, but I’m glad that she’s remembered. I’m glad you have a dog. I don’t actually hate Wal-Mart, but I’m glad some people do. And again, I’m glad you write this every years.


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