You died on a Saturday.

I've been thinking about you a good deal lately, and apparently I'm not the only one. A lot of other people at work have been mentioning you, remembering things you said or did. We still miss you, Carlos. It's hard to believe it's been just a little over a year.

I'm sorry.

A year has passed and I still don't speak Spanish or drive myself to work. I'm still working at Wal-Mart, still a department manager, still out of school. We've moved out of the in-laws' house, though. I don't sing as much as I used to, though I dress better. You probably would have been teasing me that I might have a boyfriend on the side.

"Las Chicas", as you liked to call us, are still together, though slowly drifting apart. Would you be sad for us, or have seen it coming, or simply shrugged and commented on change as a natural part of life?

I'm not afraid of dying anymore.

Nowadays death seems friendlier somehow. I suppose as you get older and more of the people you've known have passed on, dying becomes little more than a rite of passage. It's just how you get to the next level. I imagine that when I am wrinkled and old, I will have known more dead people than living, and death will be a welcome reunion.

And though I miss you, I know that if I showed up on the other side today, you'd kick me right back out and tell me I've got a whole lot more living to do.

Till we meet again, Carlos.
We're missing you, and still thinking of you.