I tried to write to you, customly, on the world’s largest social media platform.
Something short and clever about missing you.
But that felt vague.
Distant and wrong.
I hear our voices when I watch
Die Hard every year
wrapping gifts on Christmas Eve.
“Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs.”
My mother remarried the next town over,
sister at college one hour away,
father away on business left us.
Left us eating Jimmie Johns at 6 a.m. after tripping all night,
trying not to appear weird to the electrician who decided to stop by right then to fix something in that shitty apartment.
Left us to drive our cars fast through dark starry cornfields,
blasting REM, Queen, U2, Led Zeppelin,
or park them behind old barns,
softly playing Simon and Garfunkel,
Left us to climb trees so fucked up we couldn’t get back down,
scramble on top of Krannert and stare down at the town.
Smoke in the mall,
smoke in the kitchen doing shots of Boones Farm
smoke in our cars,
smoke on our porches.
Smoke in our closets which were also our bedrooms,
watch the smoke lazily twist and contort.
Ashtrays overflowing at tables of Euchre, Spades,
Hearts every night that one summer while waiting for Twin Peaks to come on.
I could go on and on and on.
We were stupid and young and had way too much sex.
We hurt each other in ways that should never have happened.
But you were my family.
And the lights and the Santas,
all those crappy carols,
always make me want to be with you–
all of you.
Us together again.
Way back then.