My lovely Strad.
I wrote this after I found out what had happened to one of my best friends, Stradley.
My hands shook uncontrollably. My face quivered as my eyes gushed
thousands of tiny, salty droplets of water. Each one different from
any I've ever expelled from my body before. I cried so hard in that
second I felt like my entire body would break from the pressure, the
movement, the pain. The excruciating, incomparable pain. I'd never
felt anything like this before. My eyes burned, my stomach ached, my
hands were unsteady, my mind was racing. What do you mean, dead? How
could this have happened? He's not dead. He couldn't be dead. Dead
means gone, never coming back, dead as a doornail, eyes closed in a
wooden box soon to be soggy with loved ones tears. Not everyday
tears, the kind of tears that were all over my clothes this second.
Those are the tears that fall on the wooden box that holds someone
who is dead. My friend, my hero, my brother, my role model. He couldn't
be dead.
I'd only ever really known one person who had died during my
lifetime. He was my great uncle. He told me jokes and punched my arm
when I saw him. I didn't cry at the funeral because I didn't
understand. I cried now, but I still didn't understand. I just want
to phone him, right now, hear his voice, feel my face warm up again.
He makes me smile every single time I talk to him. How could that be
gone? He'll still answer the phone. I know he will. He always does.
He carries his cellphone everywhere.
I could smell the salt seeping into my t-shirt. I didn't want
to admit that I was crying. I didn't want to admit, to myself, that I
was crying because my best friend and my love was really gone so I bit
down on my lip to keep from weeping. The immense pressure my teeth
were putting on my lip was a minor injury in comparison to the huge,
gaping wound I could feel in my soul just then. My lip was of no concern.
His book was going to be published next month. I couldn't wait to
buy a copy! I wanted to read everything he'd ever thought, and I knew it
would all be in his book. I knew each page would smell distinctively,
not only like that new book smell, but like Stradley. My Stradley.
I still have that card I wrote up for his birthday. I never did get
around to sending it. We both did love to procrastinate. He still
has those shirts he told me he'd send me three days after we met.
I'm glad he didn't send the shirts. I would have felt even worse now
with this card that says everything I could never say to him in
person. He knew I loved him, but I don't think he knew just how
much. I don't think he realized what I would do for him or who he is
to me. He is my idol, my hero, who I look up to most. He knows
everything I'd always wanted to learn, but never had the time. He is
my window to a better, happier life where I could be proud of
everything that I am.
I just want a cigarette, but it makes me think of him again. We'd
sit and chain smoke, telling stories, keeping each other warm until
we couldn't keep our eyes open. We tried to quit together so many
times. I always did better than him, but he always tried harder.
He'd always remind me that he'd been smoking longer than I have so
it's harder for him. He's the only person who could ever convince me
to quit and stick to it for any longer than a couple of hours.
Then, sitting in damp, soggy, silence, I realized that Stradley,
and everything that he is to me, is no longer living. Science
finally caught up to me in that moment. No matter how much I loved
him, no matter how much he made me want to keep fighting every
single day, he wasn't coming back. I knew then what was soon to
come. I would weep uncontrollably for days, not just for these
minutes. I wouldn't sleep. Instead I would dream of him in ways I
couldn't possibly fear any more. I would scream, and I would push,
and I would shove, but none of my angered effort would accomplish
anything at all. I would loathe the cause of his death more than
anything I've ever known to hate. I knew this wouldn't end. In a
week I would cry again and think of him. In a month I would cry
again and think of him. In years to come I would cry again and think
of him. He would go nowhere to me, but to some out of reach corner
of my world where I would look to him, hear his voice again, and
smile.
- Cloë Mac Donald -
- In loving memory of Stradley Jude Brettell. ♥
.. but he's still around here somewhere. I still talk to him now and then. He's not going anywhere yet.
My hands shook uncontrollably. My face quivered as my eyes gushed
thousands of tiny, salty droplets of water. Each one different from
any I've ever expelled from my body before. I cried so hard in that
second I felt like my entire body would break from the pressure, the
movement, the pain. The excruciating, incomparable pain. I'd never
felt anything like this before. My eyes burned, my stomach ached, my
hands were unsteady, my mind was racing. What do you mean, dead? How
could this have happened? He's not dead. He couldn't be dead. Dead
means gone, never coming back, dead as a doornail, eyes closed in a
wooden box soon to be soggy with loved ones tears. Not everyday
tears, the kind of tears that were all over my clothes this second.
Those are the tears that fall on the wooden box that holds someone
who is dead. My friend, my hero, my brother, my role model. He couldn't
be dead.
I'd only ever really known one person who had died during my
lifetime. He was my great uncle. He told me jokes and punched my arm
when I saw him. I didn't cry at the funeral because I didn't
understand. I cried now, but I still didn't understand. I just want
to phone him, right now, hear his voice, feel my face warm up again.
He makes me smile every single time I talk to him. How could that be
gone? He'll still answer the phone. I know he will. He always does.
He carries his cellphone everywhere.
I could smell the salt seeping into my t-shirt. I didn't want
to admit that I was crying. I didn't want to admit, to myself, that I
was crying because my best friend and my love was really gone so I bit
down on my lip to keep from weeping. The immense pressure my teeth
were putting on my lip was a minor injury in comparison to the huge,
gaping wound I could feel in my soul just then. My lip was of no concern.
His book was going to be published next month. I couldn't wait to
buy a copy! I wanted to read everything he'd ever thought, and I knew it
would all be in his book. I knew each page would smell distinctively,
not only like that new book smell, but like Stradley. My Stradley.
I still have that card I wrote up for his birthday. I never did get
around to sending it. We both did love to procrastinate. He still
has those shirts he told me he'd send me three days after we met.
I'm glad he didn't send the shirts. I would have felt even worse now
with this card that says everything I could never say to him in
person. He knew I loved him, but I don't think he knew just how
much. I don't think he realized what I would do for him or who he is
to me. He is my idol, my hero, who I look up to most. He knows
everything I'd always wanted to learn, but never had the time. He is
my window to a better, happier life where I could be proud of
everything that I am.
I just want a cigarette, but it makes me think of him again. We'd
sit and chain smoke, telling stories, keeping each other warm until
we couldn't keep our eyes open. We tried to quit together so many
times. I always did better than him, but he always tried harder.
He'd always remind me that he'd been smoking longer than I have so
it's harder for him. He's the only person who could ever convince me
to quit and stick to it for any longer than a couple of hours.
Then, sitting in damp, soggy, silence, I realized that Stradley,
and everything that he is to me, is no longer living. Science
finally caught up to me in that moment. No matter how much I loved
him, no matter how much he made me want to keep fighting every
single day, he wasn't coming back. I knew then what was soon to
come. I would weep uncontrollably for days, not just for these
minutes. I wouldn't sleep. Instead I would dream of him in ways I
couldn't possibly fear any more. I would scream, and I would push,
and I would shove, but none of my angered effort would accomplish
anything at all. I would loathe the cause of his death more than
anything I've ever known to hate. I knew this wouldn't end. In a
week I would cry again and think of him. In a month I would cry
again and think of him. In years to come I would cry again and think
of him. He would go nowhere to me, but to some out of reach corner
of my world where I would look to him, hear his voice again, and
smile.
- Cloë Mac Donald -
- In loving memory of Stradley Jude Brettell. ♥
.. but he's still around here somewhere. I still talk to him now and then. He's not going anywhere yet.