“Wow. You’ve changed,” Tom said.

 

It’s true. I have changed since the last time we spoke. Quite a lot, in fact. I’m no longer eleven, my hair is a bright, unnatural shade of pink, I’m taller, older, different.

 

“I know, it’s just… It’s been a while,” I replied. It feels weird, wrong, to talk to him this way. Years ago, before the funeral, before the hospital, before everything went wrong, he was like my second dad. He was at my house every weekend, went on hunting trips and vacations with my dad, and was the best man at my dad’s wedding.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know…” he trailed off. Neither of us really knew what to say. The conversation slowed. What do you talk about with someone you haven’t seen in years?

 

He tried to pick the conversation back up. “So… what have you been up to?”

 

“Oh, you know… I've mostly figured out my college stuff. I’m going to go to Iowa to study journalism,” I said. I felt like I should have more to talk about. I do have more to talk about! I’ve accomplished so much since my dad passed, and yet… nothing came out. The words didn’t form. I want to talk about going to all-state for speech, about my AmeriCorps position, and about becoming the senior editor for our school news site. But I couldn’t. All I could spit out was the practice script I’ve said to every family member here. The practice script that has carried me through every single family event for the past year. But it always seems to fall flat. I’ve got much more going for me than a vague major and what college I’m going to. So why do I stop myself from bringing it up?

 

“Journalism! That’s pretty cool,” he starts, “I still can’t believe you’re a senior now.” And he meant it. His face winced with the pain of passing time. It’s hard for me to believe, too. All that time, all the experiences, friends I’ve made, accomplishments I’ve had, and I can’t bring myself to talk about any of it.

 

“Yeah, I know. Pretty crazy.” I look around me, trying to avoid the awkwardness of the conversation between us. People were all around, lined up between church pews, waiting for a chance to talk to the bride and groom. You couldn’t help but notice my dad’s absence. Tom felt it. My brothers felt it. But nobody brought it up. Like, if we ignored it, it would fix itself. But how can you ignore something like that? 

 

Thoughts of my dad brought burning tears to my eyes, fighting against my wishes to escape. The thoughts I’ve been trying to ignore the whole day—when my aunt walked down the aisle, with neither her dad nor her older brother to accompany her, my realization that that will probably be me one day, the thought of this being the very last place I saw my dad’s face—overflowed out of me.

 

“Sorry… I don’t know why I’m crying,” I said with an awkward laugh. It was just a normal conversation. Just catching up with an old friend I haven’t seen since middle school. And ignoring why.

 

I shuffle away, weaving through rows of church pews, clusters of cousins, and into the side room to hide and collect myself. The tears, still burning my cheeks, eventually stop. I take a second to touch up my cakey makeup and wait until my eyes aren’t bright red anymore to head back out.