Flashbacks

2002  

They say that the flashbacks won’t last.

            My lungs feel caked with mud and I struggle to breathe. I cough violently, spraying bits of blood across the dying grass. When I fall to my knees, I can feel a distinct ache in my thigh. For the life of me, I can’t remember what I did to it.

            But I don’t believe them.

            “Get up!” The order is drowned out by the sounds of chaos and war. It takes me a moment to realize that the man is speaking to me. As I push up from the ground, the world begins to spin. Why is everything so goddamn blurry?

            If it’s not dreams, it’s flashbacks.

            An arm wraps firmly around my waist and pulls me onto my feet. My legs feel like they’re melting into hot mush. I lean into the man for support. I don’t have a clue who he is, but I’m grateful that he’s here.

            And if it’s not flashbacks, it’s dreams.

            The ground shakes slightly beneath my boots and I can hear a round of innocent shouts from behind us. I’m used to the sound of screams, it’s almost easy to ignore them now. A house in the distance is glowing a soft orange against a dark midnight sky. The flames are dancing and twirling like ballerinas. It’s really quite beautiful.

            “Would you like cream in your coffee, dear?”

            The man sets me down next to the side of a shack. “Stay here,” he says, and then he’s gone. My eyes travel to my left pant leg, to the source of the sharp ache. It’s covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood and I realize that I couldn’t leave, even if I tried.

            “Andrew.”

            I rip open the fabric and examine the wound. It’s a deep slash covered in pus and God-knows-what. The sight of it churns my stomach. Lucky for me, it has stopped bleeding. I tilt my head and rest it against the wall behind me. My eyes flutter closed as I struggle to filter out the pain.

            “Andrew, are you listening to me?”

            Sometimes it baffles me that reality still exists. It feels odd to go about my daily business, almost as though I’m bound by shackles. I do try, I do, but it hasn’t been getting any easier.

            “Sure, Cathy, I would love some,” I say absently, running my fingers lightly over the white scar that runs along my knuckles.

            “Are you scared?” His face is an inch from mine and I can smell the pungent aroma of alcohol and tobacco on his breath.

            “No, Sir.” I stand up straighter and tighten my jaw.

            Cathy wraps her hand around my shoulder and rubs it soothingly. “Are you feeling okay?” She sets a coffee cup in front of me. When did she make coffee? I bring my lips to the cup and take a long drink of the bitter liquid.

            “Okay. Yeah,” I manage to mumble as I set my cup back down.

            He grins, displaying his yellowing teeth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

           

2003

Shots pierce the air from every direction. “Get down!” someone yells, and I am quick to oblige. My body hits the ground hard.

I cover my ears with my hands, but the noise doesn’t cease. It never does.

            My finger rests lightly on the trigger of my gun and I wait. The waiting period is long and painful, but I don’t move a muscle.

            My fingers shake against my temples, ever so slightly. The tremors reach my palms and, eventually, my wrists. I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants in an attempt to cover them up.

            My boots dig into mud as I run through the streets, turning down alleyways and paths I don’t recognize. I’ve been running for a while now, the burning in my legs confirms that, but I don’t dare stop.

            Cathy wraps her arms around me, rubbing soothing circles on my shoulder. She’s whispering something, but I can’t hear.

            I turn a corner and feel my legs kick out from under me. Less than half a second before I hit the ground, I throw my hands out in front of me and land on my elbows. Ouch. I twist my head over my shoulder, wondering what I had tripped over. When my eyes fall upon a dead boy, I shudder. He couldn’t be more than ten years of age.

            I push Cathy away and make my way towards the bedroom. I can’t be around her right now; I need to be alone.

The room isn’t dark enough, so I pull the window curtains shut and lock the door. I curl into a ball underneath the bed sheets and squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels like a beating drum, and I press my fingers to my temples lightly.

            Crawling on scraped hands and weak knees, I make my way towards the boy. He’s lying on his back; eyes wide open. His expression makes him look terrified, and I find myself wondering what had happened to him. Dried blood cakes the left side of his head and he’s missing a hand. I fall back on my knees and press my hands together near my heart, praying for the boy.

            My body jolts and begins to shake uncontrollably. I struggle to control it, but it’s useless. I can vaguely hear Cathy knocking on the door over the sound of my grinding teeth.

2004

           

            “I can’t take this anymore, Andrew. I can’t take you shutting me out any longer.” Something about her words snaps back my reality. The words spill from my mouth before I realize what I’m saying.

            “Are you leaving me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Alright then.”

            “Don’t leave me, John. Stay awake, you’re going to make it.” I continue to plead with the bloodied soldier lying beside me as we make out way through the streets. I mostly mutter the same thing over and over, but I find that it helps me to stay calm. The truck we’re riding in hits a bump and I lose my balance, tumbling over top of injured men.

           

            Cathy’s gone now. I don’t remember her leaving, but all her things have been taken. Except the purple sweater I bought her a few years back for Christmas, it’s still hanging in he closet. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.

           

            A loud chorus of shots rings through the musty air.

            My hands clutch to my ears, begging the noise to leave. I know it won’t, but still, I plead with myself. A realization hits me with the force of an explosion. During the war, the only one way to silence a gun was with another gun. With one hand still clutching to my ear, I reach into my bedside drawer blindly and wrap my fingers around the cold metal of my handgun.

            The shots continue from every direction and I stay low, lying next to John, so close that I can smell the distinctness of death on his breathe. “Andrew?” he says hoarsely.

            “Yeah, buddy?”

            “What’s going on?”

            I don’t know how to answer the question, because who really fucking knows anyways. But it’s John. He deserves an answer. I open my mouth to speak, but the sound is drowned out by a nearby explosion.

            I find myself running my fingers over the trigger. Flirting with death, I suppose. It would be a quick out, an easy out. It would put silence to the images in my head that have been haunting me for years.

            The room I’m lying in is dimly lit and dusty. There’s a woman standing beside my bed, pouring water into a dirty glass. “Where am I?” I ask, struggling to sit up. Every muscle in my body groans as I do so.

            “The hospital, or at least, that’s what they call it.” Her voice is muffled, as if she’s talking through a pillow. Curiously, I bring my hand to my ear and come across dried blood. It’s not as much of a shock as it should be.

           

I press the gun to my heart. Then, ever so shakily, I raise it to the side of my head. Either way would work. I toy with the idea for a short moment, moving the gun back and forth between my chest and my temple. Temple will do the job just fine.

            The enemy is in sight; the only thing that’s left to do is shoot. I aim my gun, close one eye, and rest my finger lightly on the trigger. I’ve never killed a man before, but there’s a voice in my head that’s lingering.

            Do it.

            I steady my shaking fingers and squeeze. Bang.

            Bang.

Flying

It wasn’t a hard decision. Once I had the idea, it made so much sense that I barely had to think twice about it. Jump or suffocate. When pressed with that quick decision, I would gratefully take the former any day. But that’s just me; many others who were faced with this choice would never jump. Perhaps they were too scared of the fall, or maybe the idea never crossed their minds. If I had a chance to choose again, I wouldn’t change my decision. For those ten seconds that I was falling, I felt alive. I know what you might be thinking – why not pick neither? That wasn’t an option. 

It had happened with a sudden jolt and a fierce lurch. The towers were built to sway in high winds, it was part of their design, but I knew that they weren’t meant to sway like that. My grip on the desk was tight as I struggled to keep my balance. Others around me were doing the same, looking around with wide, terror-stricken eyes. No one knew what was going on.  

The building eventually stopped rumbling, but it brought no relief to the faces of people around me. Through an open window, heavy, dark smoke began to circle in. It engulfed my lungs as I dropped to the floor, heaving and gasping. Some of my co-workers were doing the same, and some were rushing to the other windows in futile attempts to gain fresh air.  

It wasn’t long before I felt dizzy. Clean air was thin by that point, nearly non-existent. I didn’t know how long it had been – a minute? Two? I had brought my shirt up to cover my face, using the perspiration to my advantage.  

In a zombie-like trance, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, searching for my cell phone. My hand wrapped around its cold frame, and I brought it out, flipping it open. With shaking thumbs, I dialed my wife’s number. She answered on the third ring in a frantic voice. 

“Oh thank God, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you? Do you know about the planes? Are you okay?” 

My heart thudded painfully at her words. Planes? I had no clue what she was talking about. When I didn’t answer, her voice rang through the speaker again. “Noah? Baby, where are you?” 

“The 105th floor,” I replied. My voice was so hoarse that I didn’t know if she would be able to hear me, but somehow she managed. 

“Can you get out?” 

I didn’t know the answer to her question and the smoke was clouding my thoughts. “What happened?” I slumped against the nearest desk. 

“A plane crashed into the two towers, they think it’s a terrorist attack. Please, I need to know that you’ll be okay.”  

“A terrorist attack?” My stomach churned at the words. “Where are you?”  

“At home,” she said, almost cautiously. 

The smoke was getting thicker by the second and I knew that breathing would soon become impossible. I was going to suffocate. 

“I love you,” I said, wheezing. 

“I love you too, Noah. Please get out, I-” I didn’t let her finish, the phone slipped from my grip. Luckily, that was the goodbye I needed. Please get out. Yes, that’s exactly what I needed to do.  

My body felt numb and my lungs were raw, but I stood with determination. The smoke made it difficult to see, so I ran my hands along the wall until I reached the window. Except it didn’t feel like a window, it felt like freedom.  

Jumping was something I could control, a decision I could make. And so as I settled myself around the window, preparing for the end, I felt empowered. The terrorists couldn’t control my fate. It was all mine.  

When I pushed myself out of the window, I revelled in the fresh air. For that short moment before I hit the ground, I felt free. It felt like flying. 

Sylvester

Carefully, so I don’t wake the sleeping humans, I trudge downstairs for a drink of water. The house is so peaceful. Though, sometimes it’s lonely, so I curl up at the humans’ feet and join their slumber. Before I can do that tonight, I need to get a drink of water - my tongue is feeling awfully dry.  

I push on the bathroom door to get to my water bowl. The door swings around, hitting the wall with a low bang. Surprised, I spring backwards. Hopefully the humans didn’t hear that. I lean down and lap at the water. It’s warmer than it was this morning, but it’s still water I suppose. It runs down my throat and I smack my lips – warm yet refreshing. When my thirst has been quenched, I leave the bathroom. 

A small glow emits from the living room, lighting the dark halls. The humans must have left the fireplace on, because as I turn the corner, I can feel the heat. Sure enough, I’m right. The fireplace is shimmering and shaking in its spot at the corner of the room. I’ve heard the humans say that it isn’t real, “synthetic” was the word they had used to describe it. I don’t know what synthetic means, but the fire looks real to me.  

Gills, the humans’ goldfish is swimming in his bowl on the coffee table. I’ve never liked Gills; he always gives me the stink eye, but the humans have made it quite obvious that I’m not allowed to eat him. This must be why he thinks he’s safe. He’s wrong. That fish is just one innocent tip away from crashing to the ground, and being scooped into my mouth. The majority of my Sundays have been spent devising plans to get him – that, and napping.  

I find myself drooling as I stare at Gills. He really would make a nice snack, but for tonight I will have to settle for my iams. Beef flavour is probably better than goldfish anyways. As I pass him on my way to the kitchen, Gills gives me his usual dirty look. He won’t look so smug when he’s sliding down my throat. 

After my light snack, I pace around the kitchen in search of leftover scraps from tonight’s dinner. I’m out of luck; the tiled floor is spotless. Henry must have cleaned the kitchen while I was having my evening nap. He usually does, but sometimes I get lucky and find a piece of chicken or salmon that had been missed. Salmon is my absolute favourite. 

The window above the kitchen sink has been left open, and with the breeze brings a hidden aroma. Fish. Not quite salmon, but not pike either… perhaps it’s trout? I spring onto the counter in seek of the fish. Ah ha! A leftover dinner plate is sitting next to the fridge, and to my delight, there’s a piece of fish and a side of mashed potatoes. The humans must have forgotten to put it in the fridge. I’m pretty full from my iams, but I figure I have room for a couple bites. 

As I gorge on the trout (yes, I was right), I stare at the picture on the wall. Henry painted it years ago. It’s of two humans in tuxes, facing one another. You can’t see their faces, but I’d like to think they’d be smiling, what with being surrounded by all those beautiful flowers. 

I’m ready to explode by the time I finish my second bedtime snack, and my eyelids are heavy. Time for bed. I slide down from the counter and make my way to the stairs. I’m almost feeling too lazy to climb the stairs, and for a moment, I consider sleeping at the bottom of the spiraled staircase. But I can hear George snoring from upstairs, and I decide against it. The humans’ bed will be much comfier. I trudge up the stairs and quietly enter their bedroom – the first room on the left. 

The room is warmer than the rest of the house, but it’s just how I like it. Silently, I jump onto the bed and take my usual spot at their feet. Tonight their legs are hanging out of the bedding. They usually do this in the summer when it’s too hot. Before I lie down, I lick Henry’s toes a couple of times. This has become a routine for me. It helps me sleep. I curl up in a ball at the end of the bed and close my eyes. I begin to purr, joining in unison with George’s snoring. 

- - - 

A crash wakes me. My head jerks up and I look out the open bedroom door. It must have come from downstairs. A quick glance tells me that the humans haven’t woken. I lay my head back in my paws, preparing to go back to sleep, but I hear a second crash and curiosity nibbles at my senses. I should go investigate. 

I slip to the floor soundlessly and sneak out of the room. The sound of footsteps on broken glass stops me dead in my tracks. Intruders? I know I should wake the humans, let them know what’s going on, but curiosity gets the best of me as I make my way down the staircase. Through the railing, I can see a silhouette of three humans. The fireplace illuminates their features, and I notice that they’re dressed in long, white hooded cloaks. What an odd way to dress. My humans would never wear something like that.  

One of the humans is whispering to another, but I’m too far away to pick up what they’re saying. The shortest of the three is chuckling to himself as he knocks a vase to the floor. Henry made that vase himself; it was something he seemed proud of. The largest man is tapping on Gills’s bowl. “Nasty bugger,” he says, turning back towards the other two. “Check upstairs, that must be where the bedroom is.” 

The bedroom? But that’s where my humans are sleeping. I bolt up the stairs to warn them. I don’t know who these cloaked humans are, but my instincts are telling me that they weren’t exactly invited. 

Once I’m back inside the bedroom, I don’t bother to be quiet. I leap onto George’s chest and begin to lick his nose, willing him to wake up. He stirs, but his eyes don’t open. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose. I bite down on his ear. George shoots up, eyes wide open, hair ruffled, and I’m knocked off his chest. I slide in between him and Henry and let out a shocked mewl.  

“Sylvester, what-” he begins, but he’s quickly interrupted by the heavy thudding of footsteps from outside the bedroom door. His head snaps to the two cloaked men that now stand in the doorway. His hand slides to Henry’s shoulder, gripping him tight.  

“Who’s there?” he asks. I can tell that he’s trying to sound brave, but the tremble in his voice betrays him. Beside me, Henry stirs. He sits up, but he’s still half asleep.  

“George, dear, who are you talking to?” he asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. 

The men in the doorway have yet to speak. Without a sound, they step into the room and approach the bed. Beside me, Henry and George tense, and grab for each other’s hand. I notice that the taller of the two men has a ring of hair around his lips, similar to George’s.  

“Sinners.” That’s the last thing I hear before two piercing sounds ring through my ears. One of the cloaked figures is holding something in his hands. As the ringing slowly fades, he slowly lowers the object. Its metallic surface reflects in the moonlight that filters through the window.  

The man with the beard lays his eyes on me, gripping the object tighter in his hands. I hiss and protract my claws. My fur stands on end as I watch the silver gadget move towards me. I hear a small click that seems to be coming from the thing in the man’s hand, and I hiss once more. 

“Leave the cat, it’s innocent,” the other man says gruffly, pushing the object away from my face.  

The two men turn and retreat without another word. 

Henry and George haven’t spoken for a while, so I bring my attention back to them. They’re lying very still beside me, like the statues in our garden. Why would they go back to sleep? I meow and press my paws into Henry’s chest. There’s something wet and gooey on his shirt and I lean down to lick it off for him. It tastes crude, like a mixture of pipes and salt. My face scrunches and I pull away. Looking very closely, I notice that it’s seeping down his sides and onto the white sheets. That’s going to stain. I suppose they’ll have to clean it up in the morning.  

For the second time that night, I take my spot at the end of the bed, lick Henry’s toes, and close my eyes.

I Remember

1988 

I think my first memory of you is from when we were six. Do you remember that day when we laid in your backyard for hours and watched the clouds pass us by? You could see so much that I couldn’t—rabbits, trees, snakes, houses. I remember when you said you could see a train full of people waving. I had scoffed at it, but I was secretly impressed - impressed and jealous. It amazed me how much you could see, while I was so blind. I guess that was always the difference between you and me - you could see everything, and I was about as stubborn as they came. I’m glad you were there that day. You showed me what it was like to have an imagination. Do you remember when you pointed out the cloud shaped like a hand and tried to get me to see it? Well, I did see it. Even though I said I didn’t, I did. I was just too stubborn to admit that you were right.  

1991 

Do you remember the year we joined Little League? I think we were nine. Your mom signed you up for it in the fall and had convinced mine to do the same. Out of all the games we played, there was always one that I could never get out of my mind. It was about halfway through the season and we were playing the Yankees. Their pitcher was the fastest we’d ever seen, and everyone on our team was afraid to bat against him. Except you. You weren’t one to let things like that scare you. After countless strikeouts from our team, you were up to bat. I remember it so clearly. You took one look at me, smiled, and turned into the batters box. You held your bat confidently and hit the ball farther than anyone had done all year. The left fielder missed it and you got a home run. When you got back to the bench, out of breath, I asked you, “How did you do that?” You only grinned, briefly patted my back, and said, "Your turn." That was the game I got my first hit. I guess your confidence rubbed off on me. You had a habit of doing that, even back then. 

1992 

I remember your tenth birthday, the day we felt so invincible. You’d decided not to have a birthday party, but instead you had a camp-out in your backyard with me. I never admitted it, but I felt honored. We made a banner to put across your tent - “Caleb and Emily’s fort. NO ADULTS ALLOWED”- and painted it in your favourite colour, blue. We were quite pleased with ourselves. After we had hung up the banner, you brought out your flashlights and we told ghost stories and made shadow puppets until midnight. After we had finished another round of giggles, you turned to me with wide, innocent eyes, and asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” People had been asking me that my whole life. Parents, teachers, family, friends, but somehow it was different when you asked me. I couldn’t place my finger on why, but it was. “A veterinarian,” I replied with confidence. I had expected you to get excited - being a veterinarian seemed like a big deal back then. Instead you said, “I want to be the president.” I scoffed and said, “That’s not going to happen." I'm sorry about that, by the way, that was terrible of me. You looked at me with a tight jaw, and in a cold voice you said, “And what makes you think you’re going to be a veterinarian?” You then rolled over in your sleeping bag and we didn’t speak for the rest of the night. I always felt bad for laughing, but I had too much pride to tell you.  

1994 

When I was twelve, my dad died. I don’t have to ask you if you remember this, I know you do. It had happened so suddenly, a fast car crash, a faster death. You had come to the funeral bearing white lilies and open arms. We were both sitting outside, you were sporting an over-sized black suit, and I was wearing a rather plain black dress. You were holding my hand as I sobbed into your shoulder. “I can’t do this,” I had said through my tears. “I can’t go through my life without my dad.” For a while you were silent as I cried, then, quietly, you said, “You can. I’ll be there.” I stopped crying long enough to look at you. “Do you promise?” I had asked, trying my best to hold it together. I really was a mess. “I do.” With that promise, my tears ceased. In fact, I didn’t cry through the entire ceremony. I’d like to let you know that I’ve been holding you to those words, I only wish you had kept them.  

1999 

You were seventeen when you began to get the headaches. I remember we went out to a movie one night. I brought m&ms and you brought Tylenol. We couldn’t have been halfway through the movie when you started to cough. You coughed for so long that the people beside us were starting to give us dirty looks. "Are you-" Before I had a chance to finish, you were out of your seat, pushing past people and rushing down the stairs. I got up as well, much slower than you had, and followed you out of the theatre doors. When I found you, you were huddled over a garbage can, puking your guts out. One of the workers was at your side, asking you if you were all right. You didn’t answer her. I’m not sure if it was because you were too busy throwing up, or because you just didn’t know. You didn’t answer me when I asked you either.  

1999 

A couple of days after the movie theatre incident, long hours filled with extreme nausea and headaches, your mom took you to the hospital. I remember feeling so worried about you that I asked if I could tag along. To this day, I wish I hadn’t. We were at the hospital for what felt like an eternity until, finally, the doctor asked to speak to your mother and me privately. In a gentle, calm voice, a voice that only a doctor could have, she explained that you were diagnosed with brain cancer. A primary brain tumor. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, only that it was far from good. The doctor said there was a surgery available for your type, to prolong your life. “How long?” your mother had asked in a shaky voice. I took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “A year, maybe two. It’s hard to determine at this stage.” And with those words, my world was flipped upside down, turned inside out, and shaken. I’d never told you this, but you were practically my everything.  

2000 

Surely you remember graduation night. You had been sick all week; the cancer was really getting to you. Not many people thought you would show up, but they didn’t know you like I did. I waited for the longest time outside of the auditorium, and after a while even I was beginning to second-guess whether you would show up. But then, there you were, walking towards me in a striking black gown that matched my own. You looked like you were about to say something, but instead, you leaned over and began one of your coughing fits. I rubbed your back until it was over. By then, all sorts of people were swarming around us, asking if you were okay. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you had said through coughs. When you had settled down and everyone had drifted back inside, you pulled me into a tight hug. I was surprised by how much strength you had when you looked so weak. “Thank you,” you whispered. I didn’t say anything, but I did smile. I know you couldn’t see it, but it was there. Later that night, when you walked across the stage to get your diploma, I cried. Last year I didn’t think we would be graduating together, but you were standing on that stage, proving me wrong. I never got a chance to tell you, but I’ve never been prouder. 

2000 

Graduation night was easily one of the best nights of my life. You were too sick to go camping with the other people from our graduating class like we had planned, so I set up a tent in your backyard. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression on your face when you walked outside and saw it. It was priceless. I made us a fire and we sat around it in lawn chairs, roasting marshmallows. We were both quiet for a long time, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, it never was with us. It took me a while to work up the courage to ask you what I asked you next. About the time it took me to roast three marshmallows. “Are you scared?” You looked at me with a puzzled expression on your face. Perhaps I had caught you off-guard, or maybe you just weren’t completely sure. “Why are you asking me this?” you said in a hoarse voice, I could hardly hear you over the crackle of the fire. “Because,” I paused, summoning more courage, “I am.” I felt exposed; I didn’t usually let my guard down like that. “Emily, come here.” I set down my roasting stick and walked around the fire pit to your chair. You smiled sadly at me and took my hand in yours. “Let me show you something.” You got up from your chair slowly and took a seat on the grass, pulling me down with you. We lay in the grass side by side, surrounded by night’s peaceful silence. You pointed into the sky. It was beautiful that night; the sky was filled with stars. Billions and billions of stars from places we could never begin to imagine. But they weren’t what you were pointing to. My eyes followed your frail fingers until I noticed the cloud. “What does that look like?” you asked. I stared at it thoughtfully before I answered. “A ship.” You smiled and closed your eyes. I wasn’t sure why you had asked me that, but I closed my eyes too. We both fell asleep on the warm summer grass. 

2001 

Last year, while you were in my room, you fainted. When you didn’t get up, I called 911. You wouldn’t remember this. Helplessly, I watched as you were loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital. I was in complete shock, it was hard to stop shaking and crying long enough to tell my mom what had happened. Since I was too much of a wreck to drive myself, my mom drove me. You were in the ICU, and you still hadn’t woken up. I had rushed to your side immediately and grasped your hand in mine, willing you to open your eyes. You never did. A nurse came into your room to check on you. “How long?” I asked brokenly. She looked at me with a sad expression. “His organs are failing him, there isn’t much we can do.” That wasn’t a good enough answer for me. “How long?” I repeated. “It could be hours, it could be minutes.” I nodded at her, and turned my attention back to you. Luckily, it was hours. Hours that I filled by talking to you, holding your hand, and brushing the hair out of your eyes. Your mom was there, too, of course. She held your other hand, and we shared memories back and forth. At 9:56, your heart failed. In one instant you were there, and in the next you were gone. Although your body was still on the hospital bed, I knew you weren’t really there. 

2002 

Today I laid white lilies on your grave. I usually bring you white lilies because I like what they represent; beauty, peace, and innocence. You're lying in a beautiful spot, next to a huge oak tree that shades you during the hot months of summer. You have two neighbours - one is a young boy, younger than you were, and the other is an elderly woman. When I visit you, it feels like I’m visiting them too, and sometimes I bring them flowers. But never white lilies – I reserve those for you.