Imelda.

It's been two years since you left.

I never thought it would be like this. You should have seen me graduate college, but you were too sick to make it up. You should have been able to see me walk down the aisle to marry the man of my dreams--I know how much you wanted that for me.

As mad as I was with the one who took you, I am now so mad at myself for not being who I should have been.

I should have made time to drive down and visit you when you were sick. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't see you lying there--delirious, cold and in pain. I couldn't go visit you for my own selfish reasons--because I couldn't bear to see you like that. But what about you?

I could always count on you to listen to me, to solve my problems, to talk to my father when he was being unreasonable. I knew I could call you at two in the morning and you would pick up and be happy to hear from me.

You always sent me these little trinkets through the mail that really sucked but I know you thought I would absolutely love them and you paid much more than they were worth just to ship them to New Hampshire.

And I couldn't go see you when you were dying because it would be too much for me.

Maybe I thought in the back of my mind that you would snap out of it--you always did before. You were sick with that horrible for so long and you managed to travel and enjoy life. You just HAD to get better.

But you never got better.

You died on a Wednesday.

I finally came down to see you in your casket. I drove down to New Jersey by myself because Mom and Dad were already there to be with you when you left.

I remember cursing God the entire way down. I remember stopping at that little diner in Connecticut and ordering food and once it came I just couldn't eat it.

And yet, it wasn't real to me until I saw you lying there. They made you look beautiful. You didn't look dead.

I never cried at your wake or your funeral Mass. I never cried when they came back up here to bury your body in the freezing cold.

And yet, tonight--I heard that song you loved on the radio. "Send in the Clowns." I always used to joke with you about how I hated clowns and therefore hated that song. But when I heard it, more than two years after your death, I finally cried for real. Big tears--the tears that steal life from your heart and soul.

I can barely even stand to be near your grave, because it still doesn't seem true. I am selfish to this day; it hurts too much. I vowed to get ink on my body to replicate the cross on your tombstone and I will. I just can't manage to take the photo to have the damn artist draw it. I will though. Soon. I swear.

I am sorry for not being who you needed me to be. I am sorry that I wasn't there for you as you were there for me.

I only hope that you are with the Angels and that there, you will forgive me.

Love you, Gamma.