Thinking of the upcoming winter every year has this grieving somberness to it ever since his death. It strikes a creeping anxiety to think of winter. It makes me nervous to remember the cold snows that are always so unbearable to me, because of how weak my body is to them, but now comes along a dull and desolate sensation from the memory, that now simultaneously weakens my mind. And that feeling continues to linger no matter how hard I try to shrug it away.
I've cried and screamed, horrible screams that I never knew could escape my own throat.
It's hard to forget emotions like that. Ones that were once so intense they had burst, but now are numbed and accidentally repressed.
I missed him.
I remember it being wet and cold, and the skies were gray. The snow was still upon the ground.
I was wearing my ebony dress and gothic bonnet. Although in my usual dark attire theme, I wanted to dress pretty for him today.
My eyes felt sore and tired.
It's been just a couple days now since we heard the news. How may tears have I cried already? How much longer can my heart possibly take? February 14th, the day of love, had never been as heartbroken as that day in 2015.
When I saw him, my breath hitched. Tears welled into my eyes, once more. There he was, in his casket, adorned with a satin, ivory cloth. His hands placed gently on his abdomen, giving off the illusion of him pleasantly resting.
Somehow it looked so alien. He was almost unreal, or unrecognizable.
His face had a purple tinge. His neck was swollen. I didn't make the connection as to why right away. My subconscious surely knew why, but didn't quite want to admit to herself the truth yet.
I was a fool.
The religious service was nice, but somewhat difficult for me to sit through. It was slightly uncomfortable; the mass was not something I could relate to him with since I never did see him regularly religiously practice, but at least it made the many others who also loved him at ease.
I saw him again, looking just the same as the day before. The same expression. The same resting position. The same casket, with the same elegant, luxurious mock furnishings.
His sister spoke at the podium, and I heard my name as she went through our friends. "Emily, his lifeline." My eyes swelled, and I immediately felt hurt. The reason why I hate myself still lingers today... His lifeline; the girl who he loved, but who still could not save him. The girl who he loved, but who could never return to him mutual endearment. The girl who he loved, but who had hurt him. The girl who he loved, whose fate shared with him seemed to always be complicated and tragic from the very start. The girl who he loved, who still lives.
As we left, I heard a crow on the rooftop, its call echoing across the church's yard, as if mocking me and my hurt realization of he, my beloved best friend, who has left us.
Years later, and I listen to his song. His song entitled, "Winter", a masterpiece for the prodigy of a boy that he always was.
Winter still comes, each year, and I still am tortured by the memories of while he's been gone. I wish I could focus more on remembering him alive.
But winter is cold and dismal, and sometimes still so am I.