I Miss Her Everyday, And Twice On Sunday.

That cold morning in January, at one of my grandmother's houses, in Texas. A small, dusty border town. I'd gone to catch my breath, as it felt that the bumper car of my own emotions had strapped me on front as a masthead.

I'd just come back from a walk. Dusty border towns are a good place to let yourself think. I was coming off the worst 18 years of my life. I was 18.

I remember the sound of the phone, jarring the quiet morning.
I remember the cold touch of the tile counter under my hand.
I was acutely aware of the floor beneath me, the shape of the phone on my ear.
I remember feeling like I couldn't speak.
I remember it all like it was yesterday.

But there are 7 years worth of jokes only she'd understand, 364 Sunday afternoons of tanning in her backyard I've missed, and a million times I've picked up the phone and it isn't her.
And I'm equally aware of that.

I still miss her determined little chin that said, "Dream on, boys" and her laughing eyes that gave them a bit of hope and the smirk of a grin that said either way, it was all a big joke.

I miss the faint smell of roses in your room, because you dried every one the boys ever gave you, and hung them upside down from the ceiling.

I still miss borrowing her shoes.

I miss her refreshing advice, that usually included the words, "Oh, screw them" in one context or another.

I miss watching her write, the way she'd dash off long notes so quickly.

I miss how she never carried a purse but always seemed to have a pen and some crumpled sheets of notebook paper on her person somehow.

I miss marveling at how there really wasn't a petty or jealous bone in her body.

I miss how she could infect you with simple giddiness, just by racing cute boys off the line at a traffic light.

I miss the bitter-oh-so-sweet nights when we'd talk about painful things that had happened, with someone who UNDERSTOOD.

I miss 39cent cheeseburgers and how she owned more beach towels than anyone I've ever known.

I miss getting caught by the tide, getting soaking wet, and trying to get home in her aunt's car with the suede upolstory, without getting it wet, which involved stripping down to towels and sitting in strange positions on the seats and praying we wouldn't get pulled over.

I miss the days when we thought we'd go to college together.

I miss the days when Lissy used to smile easily. There's been a hint of bitterness ever since.

I miss the days before I'd seen her body torn, literally, into three pieces.

I miss a best friend that can't be replaced.



I miss her like she died yesterday. And I miss her like she's always been gone.