if you miss the alison who talked too much and yelled in your ear, the one who took blurry photos and made up songs, it’s okay. she’s still around.
if you miss the alison who was comfortable at parties, who would choose the quietest person in the room, sit down next to them, and start a conversation, she’s around sometimes, too, though not very often.
if you miss the alison who danced by herself without music, who slurred a bit, stumbled a bit more, fell over and laughed sometimes because it didn’t really hurt, ask her to show you her foosball scar, or the bruise covering her right calf, or the scrape on her chin from when she hit the bottom of the pool.
if you miss the alison who spilled both the cocktail sauce in her left hand and the salsa in her right, or the one who knocked over the ashtray, look at your carpet.
if you miss the alison who didn’t remember your name even though you talked for an hour, and didn’t remember what you talked about, either, it’s best not to dwell on it.
if you miss the alison who missed her appointments and deadlines and classes, her tests and papers worse than if they hadn’t been done at all, look at last year’s grades.
if you miss the alison for whom every night was exactly the same, the alison who passed out and then slept all day until it was time to go out again if you miss the headache alison, dried-out and brittle every morning or the one who threw up the liquid contents of her stomach every night, or the one who sobbed drunkenly over issues the size of lime wedges, the size of bottlecaps, the size of ice cubes melting away, she’s gone.