i can't stop thinking

i hope you know that your mother thanked me for coming to your service,
and that it meant a lot to me that she did.
i feel like it probably meant a lot more to her than it would have to you,
but it's not something that i'll ever know for sure,
is it?

there's still a mark on the tree from where you left us,
and up until they paved over it there was still a mark on the road too.
it's strange to drive by and not see the skid marks.
it's strange to drive by and look for skid marks at all.

i can't help but tense up when we drive by that bend in the road,
that end of the line.
i don't understand.

your mother told me the story of you carrying home the wooden chair you made in shop class because you didn't ever want to be a bother to her.
why couldn't you just be a bother to her?
i don't think she'll ever stop blaming herself.

she scares me sometimes when she talks about you.
when she talks about dying.

i'm sure there are people who don't recognize your name anymore,
but then again i'm sure there are people who don't recognize mine either.
i guess the difference is that i'm still alive and therefore still fading.
you're dead and therefore just as vivid as you ever will be.

sometimes i feel like you'll be remembered more than anyone else,
and someday we'll all be dead,
except for you.

there's new bark growing over on the tree where you left us.
i don't know what to do.