In his death, I can choose to believe that he tried harder. I’m left with wishes that will go nowhere: I wish he hadn’t raped me, but he did. I wish I didn’t have to rehash it again for my own survival, but I do. I wish he hadn’t died, but I have no say in the matter. I didn’t attend any of the services. I didn’t send flowers. Instead, I thought about sitting next to him in class, sliding the sleeve off his coffee, and drawing a watch on it for him. He wore it all day. I loved him so much.
