The day before you died, I saw you unlike I had ever before; pale, hair unkempt, comatose, dentures had been taken off. The day before you died, you still wore the necklace that we both share. The day before you died, you had more tubes and wires than a computer lab. The day before you died, your condition was so complex you may have been a hard drive. The day you died, we were having construction done, by two men whom I have known since I was small, still not as long as I’ve known you. The day you died, I was going out to dinner. The day you died, I waited for my parents to return so I could eat without leaving my brother home alone. The day you died, when they told us, my brother, my girlfriend and, I realized that six months of expectation and preparation had not prepared me for this. The day you died, I was dumbstruck something I am often not. The day you died my brother cried, although in a few years he won’t remember you, you will only be a vague memory to him. The day you died, I didn’t process, couldn’t process so I left, I went to dinner. The day you died, my brother’s tears and sobs hurt more than the news that remained in my head, unfamiliar, still untrue as far as I was concerned. The day you died, I didn’t want anything to change so I tried not to tell my friends and just talk to them like usual; until I couldn’t hold it back anymore. The day you died, I got home and cleaned the backyard for the funeral. The day after you died, I slept late from crying until all hours of the night. The day after you died, I sat around in pajamas the ones you gave me. The day after you died, I went to your house. The day after you died, I remembered you always told me to take the box in your drawer you had shown me the box but not its contents. The day after you died, I got the box out there was no note, no last words only jewelry and money which is great and the jewelry was sentimental and moving but I just wanted to talk to you. The day after you died, we went through the box as a family and I watched my grandfather’s shaky hand pick up a gold charm he had given you almost 60 years before. The day after you died, I had to be strong and hold my grandfather and my brother while they cried. The day after you died, we ate as a family trying without success to lift one another’s spirits. The day of your funeral, l took off of work and woke up around ten from another night of crying even though I had to be there by twelve. The day of your funeral, my Abuela was already there along with my Tia Marta cleaning for the sixty some odd people who would be at our house in a few short hours. The day of your funeral, I took my time getting ready to see people I hadn’t seen in years, and who I certainly didn’t want to see now, and I tried my hardest not to ruin the makeup I was trying to do so carefully. The day of your funeral, my girlfriend showed up with just enough time for all of us to eat bagels and fruit. The day of your funeral, I talked to my second cousins the only ones who I actually like. The day of your funeral, I saw you one last time. The day of your funeral, you wore the necklace that we both have, my grandfather cried, my uncle refused to be in the room. The day of your funeral, I spoke from the truest most raw writing I had ever written, written the night you died. The day of your funeral, I cried in front of all of our family. On the day of your funeral, my girlfriend held me close. On the day of your funeral, as I went dumped dirt on your grave I held my part of the necklace tight something that now I never take off, then I went back to my girlfriends’ arms. On the day of your funeral, I saw 60 people with insincere condolences, even those with real ones still seemed stupid in comparison to my pain and my grandfathers, crowded into my small home. On the day of your funeral, I ignored everyone but my girlfriend. On the day, of your funeral my friends and my parent’s friends stopped by to cheer us up and give their condolences. On the day, of your funeral I broke down in my girlfriends’ arms and finally let myself be comforted by someone I finally let my walls down. On the day of your funeral, I let my girlfriend calm me eventually hold me, until I stopped shaking like a plastic bag stuck to a tree on a windy day. One month after you died, I was still talking to you as if you could hear me, as if you were somewhere even though I know what entertaining such ideas leads to. On the first holiday without you, I broke down again not that I hadn’t over the past two and a half months but it was worse then. Three months after you died, and I still miss you and the pain is raw as ever like a wound so deep it refuses to heal; even if it starts to heal it becomes itchy and your scratching makes it worse all over again. Three months after you died, and I still think it’s someone’s sick twisted idea of a joke.