Do you remember the night we said goodbye?

I do.

I remember you, head bowed solemnly, eyes looking up into mine as if to say please forgive me.

I remember the truck, “Wyoming State Penitentiary” written in letters with harsh corners.

I remember the look on your face as you were driven away, your hands clasping the bars of the van’s window like in a movie, but this time I didn’t know that you would be okay because they would never kill the main character.

Are you the main character, or am I?

I remember when you came home hazy-eyed and stinking of cheap liquor. 

I remember the sound of your sobbing, late at night when you thought nobody could hear.

I remember looking in your coat pocket, finding a gun and a driver’s license that said you were 22.

I remember my mother, so busy trying to forget your faults that she forgot to remember the good.

I remember that after you left I thought maybe it was a good thing, with only a little guilt.

I remember that it was as if you had died — nobody spoke about you except for me, and when I did people shrank into little balls of discomfort.

I remember the you from before, innocent and free.

I remember you.

And today I will finally say goodbye.