I have what’s left of your ashes in a plain grey box. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t think I want to let go yet. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t go to your funeral. I still expect it’s you when people visit. I’m still angry that you left. Angry that you didn’t tell me. Angry for not picking up the phone to ask why you hadn’t been around. Why you hadn’t been pestering me for a painting. Angry that I couldn’t give you the same excuses. Angry that you died alone. And maybe I could have done something about it.