i’m sorry that i didn’t cry
I’m sorry that I didn’t cry at your funeral. Mom didn’t either, but I think I’m still more sorry than she’ll ever be. You called me to your bed that night, tubes and machines taking over the master, and told me that you would die in four hours. It was so nonchalant, so stern that I thought you may have been joking. But you did die that day, dialing the morphine down yourself, letting the cancer seep deeper into your brain. You were always on time. I cried then. Begged that you wouldn’t leave, that you’d stay for just another day. I promised that I’d be good, that I’d change, I’d do whatever you ever wanted. I’m sorry that I hadn’t done that sooner.
Please, I said, please don’t leave—I don’t know how to live without you.
You left anyway and Mom would follow you soon after. I cried at her funeral. I cried for her and I cried for you and I cried for me, and I’m still sorry that I hadn’t done that sooner. Maybe if I cried when you left she would have seen that I needed her, needed someone, and then she wouldn’t have gone too. I’m sorry that I didn’t cry when I needed you.