It's eight o'clock in the morning and I'm running down stairs.
I'm about to tell you it's my sixth birthday.
I'm so excited and I jump on your stomach and tug lightly at your eyelids.
Then next thing you know I'm thirteen and I'm in this whole edgy thing you don't understand. But you still buy me goofy studded belts and depressing romance novels. We still sit in the living room every Sunday. Eating scrapple and watching Jerry Springer.
Then I'm fourteen.
You are getting sicker but I try to just ignore it.
I start to cut myself because I don't know what else to do. Built up guilt I guess because now I can't even be around you. I don't want you to see me so sad
Do you remember when I was little.
We played candy land and you bought me chocolate and marshmallows.
Mom mom was ****** because she didn't want me riled up but you didn't care as long as I was smiling.
Months go by and you get worse.
You got put in the hospital.
The cancer is killing me in the heart as much as it's killing you in the liver.
A few weeks then my mother tells me I have to say goodbye. I don't want to say goodbye to you. You were the best Pop pop anyone could ask for. I didn't say goodbye. Instead I told you I loved you so much. And I always will. And within hours. You were gone. I started smoking. I didn't want to feel like giant gaping hole you left behind.
And it's still there.
Four year later.