In Loving Memory
In Loving Memory
Dear …
Dear you…
Dear who?
I don’t know who I should address this letter too. Is it for you? Or is it for me? It’s for you from me to you; but you’ll never read it and it will never be sent. It’ll just be tucked away in a draw somewhere, or a bookshelf in my room. Never to be looked at again. Is it really a letter then? Or just some venting, a way for me to move on? Should I just say ‘Dear Journal’ or should I just man up and put your name? You’re probably laughing at how it’s taking me so long just to get past ‘dear’. Maybe I’ll just skip it for now…
You were in my dreams again last night. Did you know that? You were sitting there in the same position with that goofy smile you seem to have. Laughing at this inside joke you only seem to know. But when I wake up I can never remember the sound of your laugh. I try to remember. It plagues my thoughts, fogging my memory. I’m hunting for this treasure that’s lost in the jumbled mess of my mind. When the sun sets and I crawl into what I think will be a dreamless night, you come to me again. The thoughts of my day slowly seep away and soon all I hear is your laugh replacing them. All I see is your smile. There’s so much noise but I can never hear a thing; just your laugh echoing around me. It all becomes clear.
It’s funny how you remember things long after they’ve been forgotten. The night I got the phone call everything came flooding back; hitting me with such force I had to sit down. Like my life flashing before my eyes I saw everything. I remembered when I put flour on my hand so when you weren’t looking I pressed my hand on your back. For the rest of the night you never noticed my handprint was on your shirt. I remembered when I was feeling down you would tell these pathetic jokes that were so lousy I couldn’t help but laugh. I remembered that night when we sat under the stars. You spoke about the future and what it would bring. The fire warmed your face, brightening it in the darkness. You always had the habit of brightening up any situation… You told me about your trips and adventures that seem to jump from a book. I always wondered if they were true; but you were never one for lying. I want to smile at those memories, but now I can’t help but want to cry. We’ll never have these moments again. We’ll never laugh together, get drunk together or tell our secrets. We’ll never have it. I want to scream bloody murder. I want to hit something. I want to hit you for leaving me. I want to scream at you for letting go! I hate it. I hate it. I hate it! But I could never hate you. I promise to never forget.
Your funeral was yesterday.
I never knew how many friends you had. You were truly loved. Everyone seemed to have been your best friend. Not everybody gets that; you should feel privileged (actually, maybe it’s us that should). I didn’t bring a flower. I felt guilty I suppose. Not that you would have noticed if I brought one or not. The sun was hot which made me regret the outfit I put together. It should have rained. It would have have been fitting if it did; matching everybody’s emotion. The rain would have hid the tears more than a pair of sun glasses could.
I use to wonder why people wore sun glasses at a funeral. Was it just so they could hide their tears, or that the sun is too bright for such a dark day? Is there something wrong with showing your emotion? Is it uncivilised to show your puffy empty eyes? I will admit that a little part of me was worried that my make-up might run. Vain I know. But I wanted to look good (even though on one saw my eyes), and I wanted to look my best for you (even though you wouldn’t have noticed).
I couldn’t see you during the ceremony. Maybe it was my height, and maybe it was because I was sitting at the back (probably a bit of both). I couldn’t see you. Apart of me didn’t want to see you, but I knew I had too. I would have regretted it if I never did. When I walked up to you, I had nothing to bring. No flower. No sentimental gift. Nothing. Just myself. You were larger than life, but you were held in something so small. It hit me then. You were never coming back. I stared at your name engraved, nailed in that coffin. Mocking me. It was you. There was no mistake to be made. You weren’t going to walk through the door and laugh yelling “Fooled ya!”
I went to your house today. I think that’s the main reason as to why I’m writing this letter now. Your house has been tidied up by your parents. That stupid post-it-note that says ‘out of beer’ is still stuck on your fridge though. It’s eerie that your house looks so clean and lived in; even though no one is living in it now. I feel like I was trespassing because you weren’t there to let me in. Your mum was with me because I don’t have a key. She left me to myself when it came to your room though. I’m grateful for that. Your room isn’t like the rest of the house. Nothing has been touched. It’s this time capsule. The rest of the house is cold, but your room isn’t. Your scent of cologne and cigarettes still linger in the air. Your bed covers are crumpled at the end of the bed from being kicked off by your lanky legs. Your clothes are everywhere but in the closet. The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ album was still sitting in the turned on CD player. Nothing had changed. I saw your favourite band t-shirt hanging over your computer chair. You know the one you wore to every music festival we ever went too together. I took it. I hope you don’t mind. It smells like your hugs. I know I have to clean the shirt eventually… just not yet.
I want to know when this stops hurting. When will this ache fade? Normally you would be able to tell me. I never believed in heaven, but a little part is hoping that I’m wrong and that you’re up there jamming with Jimi Hendrix or something. I know you’re gone, but you’ll never be forgotten. I’ll never forget.
Dear my best friend,
I love you.
In loving memory,
C.B
Dear you…
Dear who?
I don’t know who I should address this letter too. Is it for you? Or is it for me? It’s for you from me to you; but you’ll never read it and it will never be sent. It’ll just be tucked away in a draw somewhere, or a bookshelf in my room. Never to be looked at again. Is it really a letter then? Or just some venting, a way for me to move on? Should I just say ‘Dear Journal’ or should I just man up and put your name? You’re probably laughing at how it’s taking me so long just to get past ‘dear’. Maybe I’ll just skip it for now…
You were in my dreams again last night. Did you know that? You were sitting there in the same position with that goofy smile you seem to have. Laughing at this inside joke you only seem to know. But when I wake up I can never remember the sound of your laugh. I try to remember. It plagues my thoughts, fogging my memory. I’m hunting for this treasure that’s lost in the jumbled mess of my mind. When the sun sets and I crawl into what I think will be a dreamless night, you come to me again. The thoughts of my day slowly seep away and soon all I hear is your laugh replacing them. All I see is your smile. There’s so much noise but I can never hear a thing; just your laugh echoing around me. It all becomes clear.
It’s funny how you remember things long after they’ve been forgotten. The night I got the phone call everything came flooding back; hitting me with such force I had to sit down. Like my life flashing before my eyes I saw everything. I remembered when I put flour on my hand so when you weren’t looking I pressed my hand on your back. For the rest of the night you never noticed my handprint was on your shirt. I remembered when I was feeling down you would tell these pathetic jokes that were so lousy I couldn’t help but laugh. I remembered that night when we sat under the stars. You spoke about the future and what it would bring. The fire warmed your face, brightening it in the darkness. You always had the habit of brightening up any situation… You told me about your trips and adventures that seem to jump from a book. I always wondered if they were true; but you were never one for lying. I want to smile at those memories, but now I can’t help but want to cry. We’ll never have these moments again. We’ll never laugh together, get drunk together or tell our secrets. We’ll never have it. I want to scream bloody murder. I want to hit something. I want to hit you for leaving me. I want to scream at you for letting go! I hate it. I hate it. I hate it! But I could never hate you. I promise to never forget.
Your funeral was yesterday.
I never knew how many friends you had. You were truly loved. Everyone seemed to have been your best friend. Not everybody gets that; you should feel privileged (actually, maybe it’s us that should). I didn’t bring a flower. I felt guilty I suppose. Not that you would have noticed if I brought one or not. The sun was hot which made me regret the outfit I put together. It should have rained. It would have have been fitting if it did; matching everybody’s emotion. The rain would have hid the tears more than a pair of sun glasses could.
I use to wonder why people wore sun glasses at a funeral. Was it just so they could hide their tears, or that the sun is too bright for such a dark day? Is there something wrong with showing your emotion? Is it uncivilised to show your puffy empty eyes? I will admit that a little part of me was worried that my make-up might run. Vain I know. But I wanted to look good (even though on one saw my eyes), and I wanted to look my best for you (even though you wouldn’t have noticed).
I couldn’t see you during the ceremony. Maybe it was my height, and maybe it was because I was sitting at the back (probably a bit of both). I couldn’t see you. Apart of me didn’t want to see you, but I knew I had too. I would have regretted it if I never did. When I walked up to you, I had nothing to bring. No flower. No sentimental gift. Nothing. Just myself. You were larger than life, but you were held in something so small. It hit me then. You were never coming back. I stared at your name engraved, nailed in that coffin. Mocking me. It was you. There was no mistake to be made. You weren’t going to walk through the door and laugh yelling “Fooled ya!”
I went to your house today. I think that’s the main reason as to why I’m writing this letter now. Your house has been tidied up by your parents. That stupid post-it-note that says ‘out of beer’ is still stuck on your fridge though. It’s eerie that your house looks so clean and lived in; even though no one is living in it now. I feel like I was trespassing because you weren’t there to let me in. Your mum was with me because I don’t have a key. She left me to myself when it came to your room though. I’m grateful for that. Your room isn’t like the rest of the house. Nothing has been touched. It’s this time capsule. The rest of the house is cold, but your room isn’t. Your scent of cologne and cigarettes still linger in the air. Your bed covers are crumpled at the end of the bed from being kicked off by your lanky legs. Your clothes are everywhere but in the closet. The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ album was still sitting in the turned on CD player. Nothing had changed. I saw your favourite band t-shirt hanging over your computer chair. You know the one you wore to every music festival we ever went too together. I took it. I hope you don’t mind. It smells like your hugs. I know I have to clean the shirt eventually… just not yet.
I want to know when this stops hurting. When will this ache fade? Normally you would be able to tell me. I never believed in heaven, but a little part is hoping that I’m wrong and that you’re up there jamming with Jimi Hendrix or something. I know you’re gone, but you’ll never be forgotten. I’ll never forget.
Dear my best friend,
I love you.
In loving memory,
C.B