You used to have a big collection of little things. Rocks, bottle caps, magnets, anything you decided was worth keeping. You weren’t scared of bugs, the dark, or your parents fighting. You loved to make up stories and hide away from the adults. You were smart. Clever. Only every bit of it went toward getting us in trouble. I’d always go along with it. I’d go along with anything for you. Having those moments with you was so much greater than getting grounded.

Things like that remind me most of how much you meant to me. How I loved you in a way that was much older than both of us. It was deep. It was real. I understood every part of you. Why you were the way you were. I took it all in, the good and the bad. I was so sure it would be you and me forever.

As we got older, it became harder to recognize you. It was down to the look in your eyes. I tried to play it off, but I could tell we were growing apart. You handled things as you always did, never too seriously. But sometimes, life throws you things that aren’t so easy to laugh off. Some things ask more from you. They make you choose who you are going to become. That was when I knew.

Between your own troubles, your mother, and all the weight you carried, it was hard to blame you at first. You took the medicine, hid the bruises. I watched it all from afar. I do believe that, for a moment, you tried to choose the right path. But eventually, it wasn’t enough. You had to reach for something bigger. It was all very sudden, or maybe I just wasn’t noticing as much as I should have. You called it salvation, but I must tell you, God can’t save you from yourself. Not from the parts you buried, not from the things you never even named. The sins you fear will forever live deep in your bones. I’m sorry to say, no faith can reach that.

At some point, I remember trying to speak out. To reach the part of you I believed was still listening. But there was no soul to save once you had stripped away what made it yours. That little girl is what kept you alive, and I watched as you buried her. And so, slowly, you began to fade. A little each time you were loved only for what could be seen. You became a man’s soon-to-be wife. A mother’s project. A ghost. The angels whisper to me, heaven does not know you by this name.

Late at night, I think of you. How happy you used to be. How full of life. I begin to blame myself. For keeping so much in my chest. For never asking more than what you were willing to give. I was afraid. Maybe not strong enough. Mostly, I was too late. You crossed into a place I could not enter, and a divide opened between us that I could never close. I stand here alone now.

May He find you where I couldn’t.