I have to write a letter to Bob.

Dear Bob,

I've been thinking of all the things I wanted to say to you but didn't get the chance to. This is probably going to be an endless string full of knots holding together pieces of thoughts. I think about you every single day, at least a hundred times a day. It's been a month as of tomorrow. Only a month. The night you died I was with you and I feel like you're going to call me any second now. I text you a lot. Do you get them? I almost call you all the time. I haven't stopped dreaming about you yet. The night before last I dreamt that I tried to bring you back to life. I don't remember the details but I do remember waking up crying. I miss you so much. You've been my desktop background and I can't bring myself to mourn anymore when I see your face everyday.

I'm, like I said last time, at peace with it. But lately I've been missing you so much. Your smile and face and eyes and arms and hands. You took such good care of me. You never wanted to see me unhappy. You were like that with all of your friends. Even if your friends were full of shit, you always made us feel like we had so much worth. In our stupid decisions. And especially in our brilliant ones. Remember that time I brought all that Lone Star over to your place and it was just me and you? You talked about the String Theory forever. Just 'cause I asked. You are the most intelligent person that I'll ever know. That's the truth, Bobby B.

I guess what I want to say very much is that you deeply impacted my life, in an incredibly remarkable way. And I guess the best way I could describe that way is by saying that when you died, a little bit of me died too. A piece of me, whichever one it was, is yours forever and I know you understand what I mean. I can't bring myself to stop talking about you. I'm really sick right now and I was lying in my bed earlier, feeling sorry for myself when I remembered this time we were on my patio drinking with Jeff and you said, "If you wanna make God laugh, tell him your plans."

That time you and I sat in your living room, you behind your drumset, and you told me you were glad I was Catholic or something (not before making fun of me for it) because you were going to need help getting into Heaven. And I'd always think, I'd say, "You certainly do. Zen and I will help you get in." And you'd thank me and we'd change the subject, fast.

I'm really upset at you for always making me say that. You shouldn't have made me say that because I thought, I was sure, that you'd outlive me and when you didn't...when you didn't outlive me, my first thought was about trying to get you into Heaven. Did I? Could I? Were you somewhere else? I felt so helpless and weak. I fucked myself up over it.

But I realized, just earlier, that you didn't need my help. I had needed yours all along. I still do.


Always,
Sarah


PS - Maybe I'll write you more later. I love you so much.