The Best SongI don't know how to say this, but you might be the best song on my play list. I still have your number on my cell phone. Often I call it when ever I feel alone. I can hear. Your voicemail greeting is like it was days ago. But then I realized I had to let you go.  In truth, I still can't play the songs that remind me of you. Like Boyz to Men, Reo Speed wagon. To name a few.  I remember that day, sitting in a chair by a desk, when I got the phone call.  My phone was on silent, so I didn't hear it ring at all.  The M.E.  asked me  my name, and I replied. This is Him; he said I'm sorry to tell you this, but your mom died.  I'm lost; my whole life has changed. I went from a son to Carol Rosas to a broken-down man on the floor crying in rage.  I couldn't continue the phone call. I couldn't even speak. I remember just crying, hurting inside. And the disbelief. I had just talked to you days before thatWe might have argued, but I was more worried about whether you suffered because I couldn't understand what the person on the other line was saying.  He said you passed from blunt force trauma. You died in a car wreck that couldn't save you, momma. Your frail body wasn't even recognizable. I think back on it. Why didn't I hug you before you left my house? Why didn't I get to say goodbye? I hate that these words even came out of my mouth but Mom. I died that day. For two long year's I would cry in pain. I couldn't sleep the night of your death because I was denying my pain.  Sick to my stomach. I'd wake up with nightmares as the phone would ring constantly from family and friends. I had never had to bury anybody. So excuse me, Mom, if your homegoing wasn't as beautiful as I planned it in the end.  I have waited years to say this. You are still the best song on my playlist. I leave it on repeat because it's my favorite. And I still have your number on my cell phone. That way, I can call you when God takes me home.  I have waited years to shed this pain. You'll be the best song on my playlist until my dying day.