I've been convinced it's November 10th for three days now. Maybe that date has been stuck in my head to remind me that tomorrow my dear friend John would have turned 25 if he was still alive.
When I heard he was in a coma 9 months ago, my mother and boyfriend found my strong reaction unexpected. "You hardly talk anymore. You aren't really that close, are you?" In a way, they were right. But why weren't we so close, why didn't we talk? Why did I refuse to see him when I went home? Because I always knew--often told him--how scared I was that he would end his own life, or others, drinking and driving.
And, of course, that is just what he did.
I think the anger I had towards him for doing what I always feared and warned against is what came out first. Then the ultimate sadness that someone who, yes, had his vices, but was overall one of the kindest, gentlest people I had ever known was suddenly... gone.
Dear John, I miss you. We were lucky to have you while we did. And in some ways I will never forgive you for putting all your loved ones through this and taking yourself away. Happy birthday. I hope you are having an alcohol free celebration up there.
