If you even went,

you’d have to introduce yourself to everyone at my funeral.

You’d have to listen to the quirks of my personality and hear about all my favorite hobbies from people you didn’t know. You’d hear about my chocolate pumpkin scones from my neighbors, and my Mexican sweet bread from my boyfriend’s family. You’d hear about all the different flowers I know how to embroider from my old landlord, and the flowers and fruits and vegetables that I can grow from my old roommates. You’d have to hear about my Saturday night good times from my bar friends and about my accomplishments from my childhood bestie, who I hope wouldn’t bother to even tell you hello. You’d have no idea all the places I lived, or the jobs I worked, or what any of my animals were named. You’d have no idea my favorite food or what color my hair was. You’d have no idea how I turned out, or how much I was able to teach myself. You’d never know I turned out okay. I turned out empathetic and loving and encouraging and emotionally mature, even though all bets were off. You’d have no idea that I spent an entire decade grieving you.

In a room full of people who loved me, you’d have to tell them you’re my parents.