I was afraid to be there. To fully acknowledge that you were gone, was too much for me. I wondered where exactly you fit. Which part you got to go into. It’s weird, but I was scared for you, more than myself, and you aren’t even here anymore.

I remember the photo of you at your funeral, you were cremated, and I wondered if your soul was still alive. I stared at that photograph for so long, just hoping for something that would never come back.

I was mad at this “higher power” that I supposedly believed in. Still am. This Heaven and Hell, these places, I want to know if you’re safe, or if they even exist. If your soul is still alive, I’m scared for it.

When my Dad pulled over to the curb and was told the news, I screamed, “What?”, when he didn’t answer me the first time. You were gone, and I was suddenly afraid to be there, afraid to be alive.

It’s hard to explain, but all I know is that I miss you and will always have to miss you.