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It, filled with you—
grey suit,
a botched haircut from the week before you decided to leave.

I wanted to be in that coffin with you.
I wanted to leave too.
Why not me?
Why you?

Don’t leave me with him,
as he raises his hands
to pull me and Mom closer.
Do you not see what you’ve done?
Do you not see the destruction you’ve created?

I suppose now you can’t see anything,
as you made me the victim,
as if I didn’t already carry enough.

A man, the pastor, trying to find the words,
fumbling through his own certainty and doubt,
attempted to decide your fate—
heaven or hell—
bones crushing,
as if my heart hadn’t already been torn
into a million jagged pieces.

And the secret.
The secret you left me with,
waiting to implode.
No one cared.
No one cared.

They shut the blinds,
even on bright, sunny days,
making way for the denial that would run
through my life
and the thread of your memory.

Covered in shame.
Covered with me.

I wanted it to be me.
I would close the blinds,
curl under the covers,
and sleep,
hoping that one day I would wake
like Sleeping Beauty—
from a healing kiss,
a healing touch.

Years stretched endlessly.
So many nights I can’t count.
So many moments I can’t reclaim.

Your absence became the shadow
behind every heartbeat,
every breath,
every choice I made.

Our eyes met,
and in that instant, I knew—
but said nothing.

I knew.
I knew it was the day you would leave,
the day you would die.
Visceral.
Real.
Full of longing.

And still, I walked into the dance studio.
Dead.
Not alive.
Carrying you in every hollow part of me.
Forever remembering.
Forever thinking of you.

It was that day—
the day you left this world.

We had spent hours searching for a turquoise bookbag,
one you would have never cared about before.
You pushed me aside,
more times than I could count.
Moving with a strength and energy
that made everything around you seem effortless.

Your handsomeness—undeniable.
Your face, angles of rebellion etched into every feature.
Funny.
Sharp.
Sensitive.
Mischievous.
Your laughter—
a spark no one could contain.

Even in your scorn, your rage,
there was precision, wildness, rebellion—
alive, impossible to ignore.
You had created something uniquely your own.
Uniquely impenetrable.

And then—the coffin.

It passed me.
Close.
Too close.
Closer than air.
Closer than thought.

Electricity—
sharp, cruel, alive—
shot through my veins.
My nervous system flared,
my body reorganized,
my mind scrambled.

That one moment,
that one scene,
rearranged my life.

The coffin moved,
concrete and eternal,
yet alive,
carrying you,
burning through the distance between us.

It contained you,
buried beneath hurt, pain, confusion,
and the earth of two parents
who were just kids themselves—
lost in ambition,
lost in confusion—
so that their children would pay the price.

I, the daughter,
the ultimate sacrifice of body for mind.

The coffin was everything that had been lost.
And yet—
you penetrated through each nail
to save me.
To save me from myself.

Even now, your whisper reaches me:
You’ve got this… I believe in you.
I believe in you.

Now, whenever I am strong,
I feel your spirit surge through me—
your raw energy, your relentless drive.
I honor you.
I carry you forward in every motion.

Your eyes at Christmas—
sharp with sorrow and mischief.
Your sarcasm at despair.
Your raw rage, your raw sadness—
uncontained, unapologetic.

Your athleticism, your daring, your spirit—
it all flows into me.
Every time I move,
every time I fight,
every time I survive.

If they only knew you—
the depth of your talent,
the hunger of your desire—
would they have judged you the way I did?
Would they have tried to confine you in their coffins,
in their vestibules of concrete judgment,
labeled with rigid, incapable eyes?

They tried anyway.

No one could see you the way I did.
No one could see you as you saw me,
as we saw each other,
that flash of understanding in silence.

And I knew.
I knew you were sorry.
I knew you were alone.

I remember the nickname you gave me—Shumby—
whispered with laughter
I could never name but could always feel.
That laughter—your mischief, your teasing, your warmth—
still echoes through me.
Even in the hardest moments, I was seen.

I am sorry to you, Vachon,
for the way I hurt you,
for the way I carried this weight that consumed us both.
I am sorry.

Through cleared hallways of hope,
through the pleasures of despair—
both necessary to find you, to find me—
I carry that whisper. Always.

And in these hallways,
I hear you clearly:
your voice, your truth,
the reality of who you were,
of who you became.
I hear your strength, your rebellion, your humor, your rage, your tenderness.
I hear the parts no one else could see,
the spark no one else could contain.

The little sister,
the one who always believed in you,
hears it now.
Knows it now.
The same way I believed in you,
the way I always believed in you,
I know now that you too believe in me.

You have not left me alone—
you have left me empty to see you,
to hear you say,
that you believe in me too.
You believe in me too.

And in my recovery,
I hear you louder.
Louder still.