I’m sitting here concerned with writing that will not come easy, the sex I haven’t had, the questions I don’t have answers to, the words I can’t find, the love growing inside my heart for a body I am learning to accept as my own, with a six-month old heartbreak that is on the mend. Since hitting this quarter-life mark, I think of my own mortality. It’s constant. It vexes. I am pre-occupied with my life, this unrelenting ego, planning my future and speculating. Will I be remembered as a person who was as important as I feel, right now, in this moment and all its insignificance?
The phone rings, and I knew before he said it. You have passed.
You were so goddamn young. You were so goddamn good. What is this randomness of who stays and who goes and how it all happens? Here I am concerned with this life and you haven’t one to cling to anymore. Death is for the living, this pain is to breathe into. This heartbreak is mine to bear – to carry you, to hold you, to remember your goodness.