Hope

I hate that you hurt. I hate this this evil, icky stuff  inside your body that makes you feel sick and makes you cry and makes your mother and your father and your sisters cry. I hate that I can't hop on my bike and meet you at Carey's for popcorn so we can talk about everything in person while sitting with our legs crossed in the end booth. I hate that I can't make you feel better.

Last year at this time, you were my angel. You kept me going when I came back to school and was lonely and mixed up and stressed out.  We giggled about beard-nets in Aesthetics class and talked about boys as we sat in the MUC when it still smelled new. I wish I could give to you what you gave to me. I wish I could give you hope.

My attempt is through the advice of a priest friend of Anne Lamott's. Here's how he says we are going to get through this:

"Left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe," he said. "Right foot, left foot, right foot, breathe." 

We're going to take steps; we're going to breath. We're going to have hope.