Today should be your birthday. You should be 27. I should be asking you if the birthday fairy has been generous this year and telling you to drop me off a slice of birthday cake.
We should be arranging your birthday celebration. When you were ill we joked that next year we’d be celebrating it extra hard to make up for the birthdays you’d had to miss because of treatment. At first it was just a joke, but as the years went on and the cancer spread deeper and deeper, those jokes turned into wishes.
A part of me is still making those wishes. I still can’t believe you are gone. You should be one step closer to 30, one step closer to marriage, to a family, to a life. You should be laughing at my shit jokes, cheering me up and telling me to stop being a drama queen.
Everything about this is wrong, but what can I do other than say:
Happy birthday, my friend, wherever you are. I’ll celebrate for you, celebrate with you in my heart where you will stay forever. I miss you.