On December 24th, 2008 I was almost 21 and drinking wine at my Grandma’s house with my family. We were having a good time. I don’t really talk to that side of the family anymore though. I got a phone call from my best friend, Kyle. I joking let my uncle answer. Kyle asked to talk to me. He sounded angry.
The next few words he said were like a a fucking nuclear bomb that seared my fucking brain for life. He said, “NineMileTower, Steve died (in Iraq). A bridge gave out, his hummer flipped, and he drowned.”
That was in 2008. I’m 37 now. I have two beautiful girls and an amazing wife. I think of Steve all the time. I ask myself, “Why do I deserve these amazing kids, wife and life, and he had to die?”
I fucking hate Christmas. I hate the stupid music. I hate fake bullshit decorations. I hate that I’m supposed to pretend that every Christmas it doesn’t fucking kill me that he isn’t here. I’m here enjoying my kids and their holiday and he’s dead.
I fucking hate Christmas.
Sounds like a fair reason to hate it, don’t have much to say/offer besides condolences.
I imagine it would’ve made Steve smile if you made them kids and wife super happy around Christmas, but what do I know?
A few more days, then we’re on to sales, new years and that weird time when everyone’s jazzed on a new year but exhausted from the last one.
Steve was really good with kids. Probably because he was never going to grow up. He would have loved my girls.
Neither him nor I are religious people, but he still smiles in my heart at us.
A few more days and its back to regular guilt and not Christmas guilt again.