“I deal with my pain by writing.”

That is how the original draft began. This is what I said to my girlfriend an hour ago.

It’s still true.

And it’s been a week. A typical, stressful week: I had 17 dollars to my name until payday, work sucked slightly more than usual, that monthly hormone nonsense, and bad news.

I thought things would be okay. I got a new lamp for my bedroom. I had a date. I had another date. Payday happened and I could pay my bills. I know a little more of what I want to do with this blog. Living with my nesting partners is still going smoothly.

We received news that he was conscious and in a walker and had grits and coffee and did a few more tiny Facebook posts.

A part of me knew that the prognosis still held. I know that all too well. They gave my dad 6 months but he managed to stay with us a year longer.

But still I thought he’d be home again, drinking rum and recalling times when he had to pull out a Sharp Pointy to prove a uh, point.

When he passed on, I was on a date. I wanted to be a present as possible– I was preoccupied and 10 minutes late– when the date mentioned spiced rum and orange juice I had a feeling– I was still reeling from having to call 911 for someone going through heroin withdrawals moments before said date arrived–

(A stealth edit: The life/death juxtaposition still holds. You died, and I’m trying to live a little more.)

I’m sorry I was late.

The news came to me after finally digging and scrolling through Facebook’s shitty algorithm. The last of our rum was in a tiny cup on the altar being lit by one candle because I had a feeling.

I haven’t deeply cried again, not yet. I’ve had a week to prepare. So it may be another week before I do. Or maybe I’m not used to other people seeing me cry like that, at home.

I received a text from said date; they weren’t feeling a connection and wished me the best. But life goes on, even if it’s a little dimmer without a friend in it.

Even if we weren’t close, but were fire-forged in such a way that’s unique to people who haven’t got around to meeting in person, but still shined through to each other.

Sometimes family is chosen and the distance doesn’t matter.

Sometimes you don’t realize who your chosen family is until they pass away and you realize “friend” is just out of habit but not quite strong enough.

Sometimes a draft is almost perfect and enough:

“Knowing” is relative. We’re Facebook friends. We were in the same group. We had a lot of mutuals in common. … Their posts and presence always brought a smile to my face.

I don’t know what to say.

Other, better people have said it better.

I feel like I’m too late. All of my gratitude, my thanks, my love– I should have expressed it more when they weren’t on their deathbed and now they’re gone.

I never write on Facebook walls; I did a few days ago.

I love you. I’ll miss you. We all will miss you.

My world genuinely grows darker without you in it.

And anyone that says Internet Friends aren’t real? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Facebook just shrunk the world, that’s all. …This is impacting me as if we were only a short drive away.

Remember, everyone, you touch people. No matter how slight it is.

And as with every death, the emotional cycle: anger at someone so good being taken away, sadness at not doing more, utter fear of losing my loved ones, the reminders that sound like shallow platitudes but actually need to be said again and again, so we don’t forget.

Because it’s really easy to forget when you’re thinking about bills and feeding the cat and that damn neighbor throwing trash in your fucking yard and that date you wished worked out a little better or the supervisor you’ll have to deal with Monday.

Here are some of your reminders:

• Love hard.
• Tell people you love them. Often.
• Reach out.

And no matter how small an impact, you still made an impact to somebody. Your passing will always affect someone in this world.