Dear friend from long ago,
Today, I turn thirty-four years old.
Yesterday, it would have been your turn. But you're dead.
I hadn't thought about you in quite a while; but life being the constant tide of memories that it is, it brought you back to me not too long ago, and reminded me of the fact that we once celebrated our birthdays together.
One of thirty-four. It seems like it never really happened.
When I think of a inky sky lit up with stars –because here in the city the sky only lets the brightest of the bright come forth and therefore recalling is all I can do– I also think of you.
I don't know what choices led up to my being here, so far away from where we met and leading a relatively simple and bourgeois life, while you no longer exist except in the memory of those who knew you.
But I am glad that I knew you, and that thinking of you always brings a bittersweet happiness that will only become sweeter as I age.
And you won't.
I sometimes refuse to believe you are dead. I would like to think that you made peace with your demons and found stability in your life; I would like to believe you found a happily ever after and that someone loved you as much as you deserved to be loved.
But maybe that's what death is all about, right?
Happy birthday, J. I am thinking of you.