Day 231 – Gone But Never Forgotten

For K.C

I’m sorry I couldn’t do him and his family’s grief justice.

Word count: 592

It is hard. That would be the first thing he would have described it as. The next, he would need more time to think about. Some days they were not quite as bad, some days there was no problem at all. Some days were hell. The first few days were hell.

It was a year to the day. Three hundred and sixty five days ahead in time. Three hundred and sixty five days of going to work and getting on with things. Three hundred and sixty five days of distractions and fun times; of getting drunk and going out; of feasting in great restaurants and staring mournfully into the distance. One whole year. One complete orbit around the sun.

Twelve months ago it had been raining. A drizzly spattering of rain with a weak sunshine seeping through the puffy clouds. A certain warmth was in the air: summer, perhaps. As ever, it was one of those ordinary days of mindless monotony. The sun rose, the alarm clocks rang, the kettle boiled and the tea bag brewed. Work began and the phones went off; the laptops were booted up and the emails soared in. Every thing was as normal until that moment that he would never forget. Though, in a way, he had forgotten it. Could he remember the exact raw grief? Could he remember the exact words said, the exact reaction afterwards? His mind had protected him from that and he would forever be grateful for that. He never wanted to relive that moment again.

Today was sunny, today was bright. Flowers blossomed and sunlight blooming through the trees cast everything in a brilliant explosion of warmth. A few couples wandered around, hand in hand, but mainly solitary characters stalked the paths here. They were all quiet souls, here. Silence spoke more than words.

Looking down, he could not quiet believe what he was seeing. In a year he had not had the courage to stand here again. It looked exactly the same as it did last time: as still as placid lake, harmless and ignorant. What had changed in a year, he wondered. Every day for the last year he had thought of that day and had dwelled on the days that had followed. Each consecutive day had been easier. The mornings soon began to feel less painful. Blissful amnesia took over for a while. But every now and then those reflective happy times flickered into his mind. Again and again he tried to bat them away with his mental fortitude. Too much pain had crossed into his world and he had fought for so long to be liberated from it: he could not let anything plough those killing fields again.

Those happy times were rushing into his mind again. Laughter and joking, strange, strange evenings of weirdness and wonderfulness. Something inside him stirred. He had felt the sensation before, but it was only now that he began to understand what it might be. He found himself giggling to himself. His ribs were aching, his cheeks burning with laughter. Images flashed before his eyes and for once they did not slice his heart.

The graveyard encompassed him and held him tight, comforting him. Three hundred and sixty five days of grieving; three hundred and sixty five days of crying and mourning, of denial and trying to forget; of treating wounds that would never heal; three hundred and sixty five days of running to solitude…. and he had only just realised that his friend had never gone: he was only far away.

~ by S.G. Mark on May 25, 2012.

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