I can play everything back. I can still see you dressed in everyday clothes. You look comfortable, you could just be sleeping. Except for that cross around your neck. Twenty-five cents, it was cheap, it was plastic. I placed it on your unmoving chest. It was a small thing to do, but I was such a small thing then, too. I’ve got bigger ideas now about death. I can pretend you’ve not left. I can still see you exist in every decisions I’ve made. When I listen to my heart, I pretend that it’s you and that I can feel you in my chest, and in my blood, coursing through me. But when I see you in old photographs, you never move. And what’s worse is I’m starting to replace all those memories with the memory of me sitting here looking through pictures. I can keep telling myself that if you were here now, you’d be proud to call me your son. I don’t think I remember what your voice sounded like. But I can remember one thing. The way that you smiled when your son kissed your cheek. I put my small hand on your hand. You couldn’t feel it, but you could feel what it meant, and I never stopped letting you know what it meant to me. And I can feel you in my lungs. Not when I breathe, but when I can’t catch my breath. I feel you in my limbs. Not when I move, but when I can’t find the strength to.
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