Reality is TEN-fold. So I Make-Believe.

Charley, my Messiah of All,

I'm angry with you. Just a bit. Anger makes me feel bad for being upset with you but it's my current state-of-mind. I get angry when you receive mail and I stare at your name knowing that the typed name I'm staring at is no longer a physical recipient. Rather than write "DECEASED" with an angry sharpee and toss it back onto the mail slot, I use the moment as an opportunity to tear up your mail and ball it into my fist. I'm pissed that mail still comes for you but am afraid it will stop coming.
I'm angry that I'm counting months and keeping track of your death. I'm angry that this life is real and you're not returning. Would you believe that I tried with all my over-extended efforts to bring you back from death? Rummaging through the thoughts you shared with me and all your undeserved sadness encouraged me to make life better for you. Even though I haven't sorted through your belongings (I imagine this won't occur for at least another year), I tried to organize your stuff in the only way I know you approve of. I looked into science to find out if anyone has been brought back to life; excavated from 10 feet under, new organs, new skin, new eyes and with its rightful soul intact. I scoured my memory for any indication that you may have been alive still when you were gently sleeping in your casket the day before we buried you into a deep darkness I can't reach. I even contemplated sneaking into the cemetery in the middle of night with shovel and rope in hand to get you out and prevent you from suffocating in dryness and solace. You died alone and now your body is alone. I'm told I will never understand but Charley, I DO! I understand why you're gone and how you got there. What I don't understand is why you. Why, WHY, wHy, w-h-y.
I fantasize about you expectedly arriving home one day as Mia and I play in the backyard, running through the sprinklers, watering the garden, drawing with sidewalk chalk, sitting in the shade eating popsicles, riding her scooter and tricycle....all while patiently waiting for you to walk through the back door and saying, "Hey, I'm home". I raise my head and beam at you, for words won't express how emotionally overwhelmed I am to see you and your face again.

I pretend you're here and my soul hugs you tightly. All I want is to be in your arms and press my face against your chest so that I can hear your heart beat. And Charley, even if you come back with no beating heart, let alone a stone-cold heart, I want you here. I'll show you what I've done with your home and my plans to expand the kitchen. I'll walk you through all the decor I added which are inspired by the colors and vibrancy in your soul. I'll tell you of my plans to make a career out of writing and how I finally applied for grad school. I'll open my arms and offer to hold you as you cry the cry no one heard. I'll devour your presence and beg you to never leave me again and promise to ask you all the questions I should've asked you the moment I knew you were thinking of taking your life.
I cannot believe you're dead. Not you, Charley. Not my idol, my hero, my messiah, my every man. Why not someone else? Why not someone who I don't love so deeply (yes, I know. Because someone else does). I have selfish thoughts, so what? I'm real and raw and that what makes me, me. I spend a lot of time staring out the window wondering where you are and how the world I'm looking at isn't a world I care for without you in it. My mind can't comprehend the magnitude of loss and sadness my heart feels. HOW has it been ten months? You were here ten months ago, Charley?! So much has happened and I want to talk to YOU about it. My reflex still reaches for the phone to call you and talk about your death with you. Only you would understand because no one else does.
I'm trying, bro. I really am. Even if I'm tiptoeing over shattered pieces of glass and emotional mines.

I love you for all that you are and all that you signify,
Yolie