Dear You Part 5

Dear You,

There were nights I would sit up and pretend that you could hear me.  I stared at the moon in child-like hope that you were still out there somewhere. I used to call the moon Gushy, your nickname, do you remember that? It’s been fifteen years, and I still remember where I was and what I was doing when I received the phone call. I haven’t been able to watch the movie Money Train since because I think something bad is going to happen if I do. Every time it’s on, I flip by it on the T.V. and hope that by catching the briefest part I haven’t doomed someone else I know to suffer. It’s crazy, I know, but I won’t watch it.

We were young and quickly becoming best friends. I know we’d still know each other today if not for the accident. Just a few weeks before, we were at camp, freezing because it was early spring in the Pacific Northwest, and we were right on the water. Cypress was the name of our cabin. I can still feel the icy nights when everyone had to double bunk just to stay warm. Why they don’t have doors or windows on the cabins is beyond me. You were my bunk buddy. I was afraid to be away from my mom, and I’d never been on my own for so many days before, but having you there helped me get through it, and even enjoy my time with everyone. Your friendship helped me grow in such a short amount of time, and I’m grateful for that.

We planted a tree for you at school in your memory. A tree wasn’t enough, but I think the teachers were at a loss having lost such a young student. It’s still there today, with a nifty little plaque and everything. I’ll make sure to go visit the next time I’m in town. It’s been a long time since I saw that tree, but I have it on good authority that it’s still standing. I’d visit your grave if I knew where it was. Your mom left town not too long after it happened. I don’t know how to get in contact with her, or I’d ask.

It was the first funeral I attended with an open casket. My friend’s mom said it helped with the grieving process if we viewed the body one last time. I don’t know if it helped me, but it didn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. You didn’t look like you. They had you in a dress! You never wore dresses. You had purple sweatpants that you loved, and I think they should have had you in those. Comfortable. That’s what you enjoyed, being comfortable. I hated that dress. Your face was pale and flat. No roundness of life was found in your cheeks, and that only made me sad. The last picture I have of you is not how I’d like to have remembered you, but nonetheless it’s there. They really shouldn’t have put you in a dress.

People say that scent is the strongest tie to memory. I think that’s true. There was a scent at your funeral when the man walked down the aisle carrying something that burned in a little box. I will never forget that smell. It was thick, and clung to your lungs, and every time I smell it I look around and try to find where it’s coming from as the picture of you flashes through my mind. But it never seems to be coming from the same place. It’s kind of nice when it pops up because I think of you.

I wish you were here. I miss you.

**A**