Dear Beloved:

You were right all along. I know it's meaningless to say it now since you can't hear me. But I want you to know I'm sorry I didn't listen. I didn't listen to anyone.

I keep thinking back to that night. It wasn't that long ago, but it feels, like a whole other lifetime. I could say that I couldn't resist the peach schnapps, or I could say you could've stopped me. But I could've stopped myself.

I guess the lion's share of the party was fun. I was glad you talked me into forgetting work for the night, despite the fact your sister was there. I never liked her. Then again, she never liked my drinking. I guess that's one thing I should've tried to have in common.

And so the night ended. I wasn't in the right state of mind to drive, but you didn't force the issue. Besides, we had done it often enough - what's once more? I don't remember the accident, only waking up in the hospital, with you laying in the bed next to me. There we lay, with no words said. There never would be again. Because, in the darkness of that night, one of us died.

I know you saw the funeral. I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed it. I suppose the better choice of words would be that it was as memorable a farewell as one could ask. But I can't tell you. After all, it was me in the casket, not you.