Just in time for almost a year after you died, they released results of what caused that airplane crash in my sister's backyard.
Pilot error. Pure, simple, unadulterated stupidity and inexperience. Right from the beginning, it was a mess. Maybe some more experienced, focused pilots could have pulled it off, even with the same conditions and mistakes. Experienced, focused pilots wouldn't have made the mistakes in the first place.
Everyone in my sister's family and her neighborhood stares up in the sky, stops everything they are doing, and holds their breath every time a plane flies overhead. You've left a lasting impression, not in the way you wanted.
I wish I couldn't take away the hurt. Your family, your friends. I wish I could take away the fear--my sister's my neices and nephews', their entire neighborhood. I wish they weren't so intertwined.
My sister is going to the crash site on the anniversary, and she says she will lay a rose there for you, one block from her house. I think she would have liked you.
Hate won't bring you back. Neither will sadness, investigations, screaming, praying. Love won't change a thing, either.
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