They called me heartless.
They said I didn't care.
But I am use to ignoring people's opinions of me.
If it had been anyone else, they would had empathized with the pain required to not attend the funeral.
But of course no one did. They just look at me- only seeing the dry eyes and disinterest in plans of rest for him. As always they do not observe. They do not see the long hours spent on the couch, high enough to not think any more about the pain and loneliness, and the desperate wishing he was back.
How could I help lay him down when he had laid in my arms, choking on his own blood- choking on his own life itself, staring up at me with vacant eyes that I still see every time I close my eyes?
How could I let go enough to send him six feet down when he had asked me, bleeding out from a bullet meant for me and mumbling apologies for things long past, to hold his hand? I never even got to say I'm sorry.
The honest answer is not that I can't, but that I choose not to. You were my only friend John and I choose not to let go.
I will not let go.