The Hardest Chapter To Write
You knew I would write about you. I joked about what I would call the chapter in my book about you, and you blushed, swearing you would hunt me down if I ever did actually name it that. I knew I would write about you, but I didn't know:
I'd gradate college without you, even though I meticulously planned every single detail of your own graduation with your family.
I'd move to Brooklyn without you, even thought it was your dream.
I'd introduce someone from my new job to my parents at the place we loved in Jensen Beach, even though we swore it would be our spot to dance when we were 80 years old.
I'd move back to our old South Florida neighborhood, even though we swore we'd never move back.
I'd walk down the aisle towards someone else in hopes of murdering your ghost, even though we planned a July wedding at that gigantic Methodist church in Brickell.
I'd write this from a thrift shop sofa overlooking an April blizzard, even though we were only ever going to see snow on fancy vacations to Banff.
Even though we named your chapter, I never meant, never realized, never believed, never knew, you would, in fact, be a chapter...and not the book.