Adieu, Jusqu'à Ce Que Nous Réunir à Nouveau

It’s been four months since dad called me in tears. It’s been four months since my phone crashed to the floor of the college canteen because of what he had to tell me. It’s been four months since I rushed onto the plane so I could come home to watch you make that final journey; knowing that forcing myself to watch would be the only way to believe all of this was actually happening.

In the week that followed, it became an almost obsessive ritual – going over the coroner’s autopsy report as if my re-reading it would turn back the time and give you some sort of control over the one stupid decision you made. I remember you asking me why it was that I never asked you to stop drinking or smoking like everyone else did and my telling you that “If it makes you happy, why would you want to stop? Besides, my telling you something doesn’t mean anything.” And I wished I could take that back.

I wish for so many things, I don’t even know where to begin... I wish I could have been honest with you and told you that I miss you. I wish I’d asked if you knew that I was so proud of everything you were doing with your life. I wish I could just see you one last time so I could memorise the lines of your face. I wish I could tell you that I was strong, that I didn’t give into fits of tears and regret, anger and helplessness and loving and hating you all at once. The worse was when I found out that you kept my letters even after all of these years... Why?

I tortured myself with so many questions, so many ‘what if’s’ and scenarios that could have been so different than where we ended up if one of us had let go of our ego and just made that first move towards being friends. And time, in its merciful way has dulled the violence to a bittersweet ache that is almost comforting. But I’ll never get used to not watching you run around with the kids, chase after the dogs and be the life of every party that you hosted. I’ll never get used to not being able to tease you for your almost obsessive desire to have all your clothes starched and ironed to within an inch of their life and you constantly prompting me with “And?” every time I got into one of my monosyllabic moods. I’ll never get used to not hearing you sing “Nothing Else Matters” in the shower and your desperate shouts when someone tickled you while you tried to sleep. I’ll never get used to you not complaining about the freckles on your nose and that my skin was lighter than yours...

Every time I go over to your place, your things scattered around the house and your painting hanging on the walls remind me that I’ll never get used to you being gone. And though this offer might be a little late, I hope that wherever you are, we can still be friends.