The ninth anniversary of your passing came and went on July 25th. Today, the 28th, is the anniversary of your funeral. I hate July.

I hate that you and I weren’t as close as I desperately wanted to be, that somehow we grew apart, but you were always there when I needed someone I could trust.

I hate that you had the fucking audacity to die when we agreed that I would always be eight years younger than you. I am now older than you when the cancer won.

I miss you.