I woke up on Christmas morning and the first thing I thought about was you.
Maybe today a little present neatly wrapped in green paper with a big bright red bow on top will appear next to my bed.
Maybe today you will ask me to cook you Christmas tree-shaped pancakes for breakfast and I will give in to your big blue pleading eyes.
Maybe today you and I will pop by mom's house for a Christmas leftover meal.
Maybe today we will go ice-skating to that large lake near Rilley's cottage and then make a big campfire and play Christmas songs and make s'mores.

But then again. None of that will ever happen again.

Because that night, that beautiful last Christmas night, you had to drown on that stupid frozen lake.
I had to take my attention off of you for five seconds. You had to kick the edge of your skate too hard in a layer of ice too thin and crack the floor underneath you.
You had to fall into the freezing cold water and the skates had to be too heavy not to sink.
It had to be so freaking cold. The water had to freeze back almost immediately.
I had to cry my lungs out in impotence.

I do remember, you know? I remember that night very well. I remember the logs Rilley and Alec were stacking up to light the biggest campfire we would have ever seen.
i remember your coal black hair that back then was so long it fell down your shoulders to the small of your back tied in a ponytail, starting to break free by mid-afternoon, leaving thin strands fly messily all over your face.
I remember the exact smell of those specific pancakes and the scent of a cinnamon stick breaking in your hands and the maple syrup dripping over your breakfast.
I remember you always put too much of it in your pancakes.
And I giggle at that.
And then I cry at the mere thought of you.
I remember that little present, still wrapped up with its bow on top. Your last present.
I never opened it. It felt like, if I did, all your life and your memories would rip apart along with the thin shiny green wrapping paper.

Maybe it's time to open it. To let you go.
I have preserved you in my memory all these years.
I have been grasping to you for eighteen Christmases.
Eighteen years that I will never get back.
But you won't either.
You will never get to know what it feels like to be independent.
You will never get to know what it is like to go to the beach.
You will never get to know what kissing is like
You will never have a boyfriend.
You will never go to high school, or college, or have a job.
You will never care for me whan I'm all old and crumbly and sensitive.
You will never cry with me for the silliest things
You will never watch TV with me and understand me when I start fangirling.
You will never read a book of mine and tell me what you think.
We will never be crazy together.

But I guess that no longer matters. Does it?

Because just maybe It's time to let go of your memory
Maybe It's time to throw your old school works away.
Maybe It's time to open your laptop.
Maybe It's time to sell your clothes, your blankets
Maybe it's time to dispose of your glasses, which I left over your bedside table, just like you always did.
Maybe It's time to visit your grave and speak to you, they say it'll help.
Maybe it's time to unlock your cellphone and see that last selfie you and I took that day.
Maybe just now, after eighteen Christmases, it's time to open that little box and let you be free.
But of course I don't.
I never could.
I slowly leave everything perfectly in place.
And I pace calmly to the lake that ended your life.
I'm sure you'll tell me what my gift was, after all.
After three hours of nonstop walking, I step into the frozen lake and start dancing for you.
I hit the thin ice of the same section you did.
The ice is still too thin.
I sink into joining you.
And all that's ever left of us is that little gift box wrapped in green paper with a big red bow on top.