The first time i felt death, i was about to have salad for dinner.

I couldn’t eat it.

I remember that awful first night vividly. I remember crying in the kitchen begging my parents to tell me it wasn’t true. I remember my dad’s voice softening, telling me i had to eat, even as his eyes were rimmed with red. I had never seen him cry. I remember not being able to process it. I thought he would live forever. I remember staying up all night crying in my parents bed. I remember still going to school the next day.

It’s been a year now, and i’m crying at your grave, feeling guilty for your death.

“It was my fault” I think, even as i know it was or natural causes.

“It was my fault” I think, as i stand in the rain.

“It was my fault” i think, as i lower the umbrella to let the rain drench me. The guilt is even worse because i only think of it when i think of him. That guilt? Mixed with pain?

It’s been a year now, and you’re still gone. I don’t know how i fooled myself into thinking maybe you would come back.