And the truth is I miss you. Coldplay. I listen to many songs. They all remind me of you.
We used to drive in the car, errands, school, adventuring. We always changed the lyrics. I’m wide awake became, I’m fucking baked. We could always add something about toilet habits. It was the little things that made Mali and I close.
Everywhere I go in this town reminds me of her. The routes we drove. Waiting for her after school. Hanging on the second floor of my work. The house we lived in and made a home in. Church. I used to belt out hymns just to make her laugh, off key
When she was a baby, the nutcracker suite was a sure thing to lull her to sleep. As she got older it was the Beatles. She moved into boy bands as an grade school child, then hip hop in junior high. As a high school student she loved Beyoncé, Drake, Rihanna. She was starting to grow away from me. She still made sure I was behind her watching over her as always. There was always time for a duet of Bohemian Rhapsody.
These things cause me great pain where once the brought me such joy. The loss of Mali is nothing short of a life sentence.
The affirmations have changed from survival quotes to positive quotes . “I’m ok”, “I can choose to have a bad day”. Deep inside I’m throwing the bullshit flag.
How does one believe in a life after Mali? I don’t want to. I am being dragged along a current I don’t care to paddle in. So I don’t. I am definitely into drifting at this point. I don’t care where the current takes me.
Is there any reprieve from this anguish that consumes me every single fucking day I wake up?
I find myself not caring about much. I think a lot about checking out. Driving my car into a bridge, a ditch, Pills, axphxiation.
I try however, to stay in touch with the world around me. I go to work. I don’t allow myself to leave early or take I can’t do it days anymore. I force myself to socialize in limited amounts. Why? Because I am not sure what I want.
Sell the house, leave this town. Break into her niche at the mausoleum and clean it out taking her ashes home with me.
Most days I am in a fog. I miss my girl. I miss my friend. I miss our life. Somewhere under the veneer is a boiling pot of rage. I am angry at the loss of her.
The loss of watching this wonderful young lady grow into a woman. There will be no graduations from high school or college. No more Arsenal games. No more sports or debates for her. No wedding. No grandchildren. No singing,
How does one replace any of that? You can’t.
Remembering Mali 
How do you tell your daughter that bridges, ditches, pills and asphyxiation are unacceptable rookie bullshit without insulting her intelligence, questioning her experience or otherwise pissing her off and driving a wedge into our relationship? Probably can’t but a rough relationship is better than a postmortem relationship so I’ll say it anyway, take a chance. Silence is consent. Her feelings are raw, real, typically human and probably universal. I’ve had them myself. So has her mother. I prefer the 1911 in my fantasies because it would be a proper military exit. This is the same as flipping-off God because you are deeply angry He created you in the first place.
Tombstone. Doc Holiday tells Wyatt why Ringo does the things he does. He kills people because he is terminally pissed-off that he was created in the first place. Ringo was an extrovert. We, however, are introverts and turn the rage and violence inward. Nobody claims we drew a good hand. But we are judged, solely by ourselves BTW, on how we play that hand.
Take care of yourself. Be kind to yourself. We love you as only parents can love their child, and you know how that goes. I will not be attending any more funerals except my own, and then only when NavPers gets around to cutting the PCS orders. And don’t forget who’s in the bleachers, now, hoping you’ll hit that home run.
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Celia , my dear sweet Celia. I think about you & Mahli & Tim &TJ & Mandie a lot. But really mostly you & Mahli. I love you.
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