I was ill the day my dad died. I had the option to go to the hospital to see him, but decided not to. I left school during lunch time, and by the evening rolled around I was fine. I stayed in my school uniform and curled up on the couch in an itchy purple blanket that was way too big for little me. I changed my mind, but no one had the transport to get me to the hospital. My dad’s friend got a call from another one of his friends. I don’t remember what she said. I remember crying. No sound. Only tears. Only tightening my fists around the s***** old blanket my dad promised he’d throw out. Only burying myself into the couch full of cigarette burns from when he dozed off because the chemo he had made him sleepy.

Here I am, 8 and a half years later, wrapped up in the same blanket I promised myself I’d throw out for him, crying exactly how I was back then. I didn’t even f****** say goodbye.

I’m sorry, dad.

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