A year after your death, I wrote a poem, but I hadn’t really grieved yet. Instead, I fled to Colorado because I finally had the freedom to do so.

Two years after your death, I curled into a ball on the couch and cried uncontrollably.

Three years after your death, I began to feel the guilt in earnest. Did I do the right thing?

Four years after your death, I was too busy worrying about Y2K to think about much of anything.

Five years after your death, you gave me a gift. It had to be you. Who else would stash a brand new wooden toilet seat with a hand-carved trout on it in an evergreen bush the same day my wooden toilet seat at home broke?

Six years after your death, I met your son and attended his wedding.

Seven years after your death, my marriage was in tatters, and I didn’t have enough energy to think about you. I’m sorry.

Eight years after your death, I thought a lot about our time at Brother Falls.

Nine years after your death, I had a new love and a new family, but I still found time to remember my inadequacy in regard to you.

Ten years after your death, our parents were finally ready to watch old home movies again.

Eleven years after your death, this writing prompt reminds me how much I still miss you.