The first time I took her to visit your grave, it was a sunny day and the flowers were in full bloom. It wasn’t like any of the tropes you would see in a movie, and the whimsy of it all felt inappropriate for a place that was supposed to have a weight to it. But I guess I wouldn’t know; I wasn’t there when they bought your casket or when they lowered you into the earth, so it was my first time there, too.

I’m sorry it took so long. I know I’ve been selfish, keeping her away from you for so long. I hope you aren’t too mad at them for not pushing me to go, because they really tried. They tried longer than anyone could be expected to try. I would always find some way to rationalize it. She was too young; she wouldn’t remember anyway; it was too far away; other hurtful things that I didn’t mean and don’t want to tell you now. They don’t talk to me anymore, which was what I wanted at the time anyway. You’d know better than anyone how easy it is to give up on someone who can’t even be honest with themselves, like I always was.

But I changed on that day I took her to visit you. I was having another episode and called in “sick” to work again. After dropping her off at day care, I took a detour and ended up passing through our old neighborhood. I stopped by our favorite café and found out that it was shutting down in a week. I sat down at our favorite table — the one by the windows, so you could watch the people at the nearby park — and yearned for a time when we thought we would get old here, wasting our days away writing poems and reminiscing about the life we lived together. I yearned so hard that I swear I could smell the grinding beans, hear the ambient chatter, taste the London fog against my tongue. I found myself expecting you to come in through the door, clutching your tote full of books and manuscripts, asking me whether I’ve already placed your order or not.

I stayed for hours, sobbing in silence, waiting for you. Of course, you never came. I wondered whether this is how you felt on your last day here. I hoped you ordered yourself that red bean bun I never let you order, watched the people in the park one last time. For the first time since you left, I felt that I must have hurt you more than you hurt me. Please don’t misunderstand me; it’s not that I didn’t think I wasn’t at fault before. If I hadn’t cut you a thousand times, maybe you wouldn’t have been in the state of mind to fire that single shot through our hearts. But I was in such a dark place after you left, and the only way I crawled forward was to think of myself as a victim, and you as the villain. On that day, I put away your specter and let your light out from the back of my mind. I apologized to it, told it how much I missed you. I found myself doing the thing I always accused you of doing: going back in time, correcting every little thing I did to you through our whole time together, in some silly attempt to prevent the memory of us from fading from that “forever after ever.” 

I couldn’t stay longer to think about it, because I had to pick her up and I needed to compose myself. When I did, the first thing she asked me was whether we could go get ice cream. She had heard from her friends at school that their parents would take them every weekend, and she wanted to know what it was like to be able to choose what flavor she wanted to eat. I felt the memory of you I manifested in the café, chastising me for denying her the joy of ice cream in the spring for so long. I wanted to be both of us for her. And so I took her to the place around the corner from our old apartment with the funny flavors you would always try and regret. She had her first taste of chili crisp on top of chocolate ice cream, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how much you would have enjoyed the sight. 

And then I realized that this was the kind of moment we had dreamed about, the kind of family we had always said we would be. So I asked her whether she wanted to meet you. And in between bites, she said yes. At her suggestion, we ordered another cup of chili crisp chocolate for you, and that was the beautiful, sunny day I took her to visit your grave. We sat down next to you and scooped the ice cream over the grass, watching it melt into the dirt. And then she started asking me so many questions about you. What are you like? Why do you live here? Why can’t you come see us? I told her so many stories about us — the good ones, which I now realize is almost all of it. I wasn’t sure how to answer her last question, but I know you would want her to live in imagination, so I told her you were always here, invisible but everywhere at the same time. I think I inadvertently made you a superhero in her mind, but I can’t imagine you would’ve had it any other way. Before we left, we picked some flowers and left them for you. She hugged your tombstone and said she would be back to show you her new dance moves. 

This year has been my best year since you’ve been gone. It’s still not easy for me to leave the house, and I still have to fight the instinct to litigate the past. The café has closed and has been empty ever since, and even the park has been excavated to make space for some soulless office complex. But I’ve forgiven you and myself, and I know I mean it. I’ve found myself laughing again at old pictures of us together, giving in to my imagination in ways that would make you proud. I’ve done so many things with her that I’ve not let myself do in all this time. I conjure you up in my mind and let you possess my body, letting her do the crazy, spontaneous things that still make me shudder.

She looks so much like you. She has your soft button nose I used to poke to wake you up from your naps; your long earlobes that you bragged were auspicious; your thick eyebrows that slant down when you smile in all your photos. And she acts like you too. She scrunches her face when she smells something weird. She hiccups when she laughs too hard. She stomps in puddles when it’s raining and doesn’t care if she gets wet and muddy. Every moment I spend with her isn’t just a memory I make with her, but a memory I relive with you. I’m sure there will come a day when she’ll drive me up the wall like you used to, but I’ve spent so much time rehearsing what I should have done after you left that I’m almost looking forward to it. How lucky am I that I get a second chance — to give her the grace I should’ve also given to you, to love all of you.

It’s been thirty weeks since the first time I took her to visit your grave, and today is the thirtieth time I will take her. Today, I’m bringing this letter, a lighter, and the red bean buns I never let you order. They don’t taste as sweet as I remember, but they remind me of you, and that’s more than sweet enough for me.