My grief is quiet, nearly silent. It is drowned out by the words and tears of your parents, your siblings, your friends, your coworkers. It finds me in the middle of the night, in secluded corners, on long car rides.

Most days, I keep you out of my thoughts. It's easier not to remember you because then I don't miss you. It's easier to forget. It's easier to deny that there is a dull, heavy ache in my heart, right where you used to live. If I forget to remember you, I don't need to mourn never seeing you get married or the fact that my children will grow up never knowing yours.

The unfairness of losing you will never lose its sting. It will always be at the forefront of my feelings for you. I am not simple-minded enough to convert my grief into nostalgia. I am unwilling to deny the anger and confusion that I feel every single time I remember that you died at twenty-four, all of your goals unaccomplished, all of your dreams unrealized. There is nothing natural or correct about the way that you were taken.

I miss you. I will never stop missing you. I may never accept the way that you left us. I may never outgrow this grief.