Do you know what it was like to lose you and never get one last goodbye?
To never see you laugh and smile, calling my name with excitement in your voice, again?
To never grasp your few strands of flimsy hair and pull them into little ponytails, complete with baubles and bows?
To never have you stroke my long hair and call me beautiful, about how much you loved seeing me?
To hear you say how much you missed me and my sisters, wishing you could see us more often?
To tell me you loved me one last time, and say “Goodbye, see you next month?”
When I lost you, I couldn’t feel my lungs.
My parents thought I was asleep.
My father who never cried sobbing, screaming.
My mother, who is much smaller than he, holding his large figure.
I turned into the couch and breathed, or tried to.
And I just cried.
And cried.
Because I never said goodbye.