You could stop making me feel invisible. You could be willing to see how much it still hurts. You could say that you’ve been thinking about it, and you understand why I might be angry. You could say that you’re sorry things didn’t go differently.
You could cry with me.
You could listen. You could ask me, “What was the worst part?” You could ask me more than once, because sometimes the worst part changes.
Today the worst part is all the stories I’m never going to hear. You could tell me about your crappy childhood – not to make me feel like mine was a piece of cake, but to help me understand where we came from. You could tell me about your parents and your grandparents.
You could tell me about my brother. Did he have a name?
I know it’s a tall order. I know it’s not going to happen. But if it did, then maybe we could go to the beach and I could buy you an ice cream cone.