Dear Me Oh My,

The last thing I remember, we were arguing over a question presented to us, Where do you see yourself in five years?

You wanted to answer it, I didn’t. I wanted to go play and not worry about tomorrow, so I raced my motorcycle down the breakdown lane. You hung on, always the sensible one, hoping the helmet you reminded me to strap on might save our life. Your luck had nothing to do with it, it was all out of my Nine Lives account, it’s called a breakdown lane for a reason. So obvious.

Through our pain, we still talked, hoped and dreamed. Physical therapy, surgeries, lawsuits. Soon the pain, mainly frustration, became too much and I chose pills over your voice of reason. I simply knocked you off my shoulder.

You asked me many times to take you for a walk, or read one of our favorite magazines. Two years later, our breathing slowed, our muscles died. You threatened me with death, you couldn’t take it anymore.

So here we are, above the forest, breathing fresh air again, back on track.