sitting shiva

It's been 4 years, and we're still grieving. Some years, one of us comes close to forgetting your anniversary, but - pathetic bunch we are - one of the others invariably keeps us all remembering. I guess that's a good sign, really, that we keep coming back because having a place to come back to signifies we've moved on (most of us. Your brother won't let go.)
When I hear the others' grief, I feel isolated. I don't miss you like they do, and to an extent I hold myself back out of reverence for our relationship, our exclusivity, our privacy. But, no. I don't miss you for me. You weren't a regular part of my life when you died. We lived in different states, and we weren't ever going to connect as we once had. What I felt and still feel is anger, with you, for being such a witless prick. How could you be so cavalier with the lives of the people who were going to miss you? Your mother? Your brother? Scott? Sally? And what, exactly, did you not comprehend - you with your 140+ IQ - with respect to managing your diabetes? Check your sugar, take your injections OR YOU WILL DIE! Maybe I'm the only one who will say it, but there is no way in hell that you didn't get it. You rolled the dice because you were either too unhappy, too romantic, or too damn lazy to grow up, and I will never wax romantic about your "tragic death" simply becaue I won't give you the satisfaction. It was not romantic; it was stupid. And wasteful. And, from what I can surmise, undignified.
Sally thinks the diabetes explains your mercurial personality, and I think she's right, but once you received your diagnosis (after the first time you went into a sugar coma), it was on you to manage it.
You and I should have spent more time talking through this, but we were idealistic, romantic, and wreckless, and I don't know if I could have explained to you what I know now: that growing old is more beautiful and more admirable than dying young.
I will always, always cherish our time together. It was altogether unique, and I'm glad I've never experienced anything like what we had, before or since. But it wasn't enough, Matt. You had more to do, and if it wasn't the next great American novel, it was still more to do.