I remember that night I found you in my garage, sitting on dad’s old rickety wooden chair, sobbing, alone, hiding. A thousand times since I’ve asked myself what I could have said or done differently. Best friends forever. That’s what we promised each other. It came late to me, yet I realize now that forever for me will be haunted. Your cries, your anguish. My begging you to tell me what was wrong. My failure.
Your mom’s boyfriend was a monster. He took and crushed a delicate, beautiful flower in his demented self-destruction. I should have begged you to stay. I should have – I don’t know – done something. It’s what friends do, right?
I miss you so much. I see you in empty chairs, parked cars, the coffee shop. I hear you in a laugh, in a whiff of your perfume, the smell of an April shower, a field of Cali aster.
The execution is tomorrow. They say it will be closure. For me, I think I will always see a ghost in that chair.