I am haunted by her memories, woken deep into the night by her calling my name, and stuck in the psychological torment of "what if". I hid my writing from her. She knew I wrote, but never truly read any of my work, and I regret wholeheartedly all the missed opportunities, hugs, and communications, and there's now no way to re-do these never-moments. All of my tomorrows are not worthy enough to regain the 40 yesterdays and counting since she was here.
I'll have to find a way, even if the things I love are bitter and useless to my existence in the current time. It's what my mother would've wanted. Always and forever!