10 years.

I do it every year, a tradition of sorts. I know it’s a normal, predictable, boring, tradition; but not for me. I don’t do it for anyone else, I do it just for you. None of the others get this from me, they just get my memories and thoughts for a day. Not you, for some reason each year I give you this. A letter and some flowers. Even when I’m thousands of miles away, across oceans and over lands, still I write a note and send some flowers to that place.

Today I sit, blank paper in front of me, wondering what to tell you, and I realize that although I have so much to say, it all seems so pointless. If you were here with me I’d stay up all night telling you all the details. I’d listen as you spilled your heart out to me. We’d dream and make plans, and we’d encourage each other on. I’d encourage you this time, not just the other way round. But you’re not here, and you’ll never read those letters, they’re just words on paper.

It’s been 10 years now, 10 years since that day they switched off your machine. The life-giving one, that kept you through til you turned 16. 10 years is a milestone. I realise what they say is true, it never stops hurting, but it does become easier.

I miss you – and even when it seems pointless I keep writing – I keep buying flowers,  because it’s our tradition, just for me and you. I kept doing it year after year, because I needed to remember how important you were in my life, and I needed to honor you for all you did. I kept doing it because whether you know it or not, you’re worth it.

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