25/11/2017 00:07 Sent
The last time you reached out to me was three years ago. You told me that, after an autumn that felt like swimming in black tar, your depression was easing its hold on you. You'd started to play Bach again. You'd met a girl, a terrific painter.
I forgot to reply to you when you told me about the girl.
I forgot about your message once,
and twice. Then again and again, until I never replied.
I was a coward. I let the years slip, hoping that someday soon, your sharp edges would be healed and you'd reach out to me again. I waited for the day you'd invite me to visit you and your painter. I was biding my time, always ready for life to reconnect us. Had I known how little time we had, I would've extended my hand. We would've met and stared at the sea. You would've told me about the painter girl. I would've told you about the crazy things I saw in London. We would've had a long chat about Siddhartha.
In my mind, you're forever twenty-two.
When I think of you, I see your eyes adorned with a sparkle I could never quite understand. I see your long dark hair curling down to meet your shoulders. I see your furrowed brows prepared for a dark joke or an obscure poem. I see your frailty that I was hoping would be like puberty; something that you'd soon grow out of and shed like a lizard that sheds its skin.
You gave me rock n' roll. You gave me Hermann Hesse. You gave me Edith Södergran. You gave me Buddhism. You gave me frenzied wilderness and soft serenity. You gave me untamed and everlasting camaraderie. As your parting gift, you gave me heavy sadness.
I loved you when we were fourteen.
I loved you when I laid flowers by your coffin on a winter morning
and I loved you when I saw your grandfather cry.