For Moa

How many years have passed since that bright spring morning at the end of March, at the end of innocence. When eggs fell from the sky and your laugh would echo in the corridor. I always thought I would never forget your laugh. I try now, but I cannot hear it. But I remember your turqoise sweater and your post-Asia tan. I remember seeing in you the future upon which I was to embark. I saw in you the hope I had not dared wish for myself.

I rode the tram past your house the day you died. I looked out at your neighborhood and thought I should text you to see how you were. I got busy anticipating my arrival and never sent it, but you wouldn't have seen it anyway. I still have your number in my phone, but I try to skip it quickly when I pass through the Ms.

On our way to the funeral, we were laughing and joking and everything was unreal. We stopped at a gas station to change into formal attire; it was a long drive. I don't remember anyone saying anything on the way home. I cried for you the entire time; I cried until there was nothing left, and I could barely stand. I saw your parents and thought, they will always have lost you. I suspect I cried more for myself than anything else. Such is Life, when you are forced to consider it.

We would still talk about you from time to time. And I think we got closer because of it; we looked out for each other like we were all frail baby chicks. But everyone grieves differently, and Time does what it will with our wounds.

It was an awfully high building. I am afraid of heights. You jumped, you soared, I suppose you hoped for weightlessness and freedom. You taught me that I already had that right here.

That summer, a dear friend said Something is different. You look happy. I thought of you then, and I thanked you.