Twenty-eight-years. 10,227 days. 578 without you in them. 578 since you were here.

Looks like I finally caught up with you. The last birthday you reached.

It kills me to know I’ve finally beaten you at something. Except the irony is that you’re the one who’s dead but I’ve to go on living with it. You were always better at making dark humor feel lighter. Whenever I use it, something about it just sounds sadder. Maybe cos it’s not followed by your laughter.

Just so you know, gifts and wishes and surprises will never be the same. At least that’s how it feels. And I promise it’s not your fault. I’d never want you to think that, though it would be funny to see your reaction as I say it, see if you’d take the piss about me being dramatic. But I just see it all differently now. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always appreciate a handwritten card and sentimental token, but I won’t burst with excitement at a massive party like my 18^th or 21^st when it felt like all the love in my life was under the one roof and anything was possible. I won’t laugh like I did at the Now 81 CD you bought me cos you wanted it for yourself. I can’t imagine feeling more relieved and at ease than the moment the surgeons told us you made it through your operation, waking up knowing you were here for another day. I won’t feel as shocked as the night I found out Laura died, regret for not making a call to check if my friend was alright. I won’t feel as nervous as when I left my life in Vietnam; squished the remainders of two years into a case and sat on that flight back home wondering what was next, knowing no good was going to come. I can’t imagine more joy than the day we watched the final episode of Derry Girls in your hospital bed. Both of us silently shaken with emotion, agreeing we needed to watch it again. I won’t feel as much anger as the months after you died, questioning the point of life and repeatedly asking why. I hope I never feel as crushed as the time we sat in that small meeting room and the doctor told you that it was unlikely you’d make it to the following year. You shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and in that moment something inside of me died.

And I know I won’t sing that song the same after watching you blow out candles for the last time.

I used to call myself a celebration person. But at the end of the day, I am just a person. And for whatever reason, it now feels scary and sometimes hurts to let my body feel these big emotions. But I am here for another year, so here’s to that. Here’s to being and leaning into all the messy feelings and complications that comes with that. Because I know you would likely give anything to have this life back. So, I promise I’ll carry on living rather than wishing it away. Just taking it one day at a time.

For now, here’s to 10,227.