I thought I knew you. You doted when you were here and called when you weren’t. When you talked to me, your voice was filled with affection. We went on walks that I didn’t appreciate.
You died about a month ago. When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it. You had survived so much, but not this. I wonder what about I knew was real.
Others told stories about you. They had a different perspective from what I had. I had no reason to disbelieve them. The phone calls seemed to prove their point.
You are gone, and I am numb. I realize that I did not truly know you.
I wish that we had a better relationship when I was alive. Mind, I never spoke an ill word over the phone, to your presence. Politeness always reigned supreme. At times, however, I wanted to tell you to stop. To look inward, and see the harm that you were causing, along with the joy. Someone taught my family to respond to controversy with crushing blows, to fight for ambition regardless of the consequences for others. We also learned to hide pieces of ourselves to stay alive. That was all we could do.