Excerpts From The Book I'll Never Write

#16

I remember the sirens. They became louder and louder as they moved towards my house. I remember the darkness that I saw because I was to scared to open my eyes and see your broken body in my arms. I remember how you felt, all bones and no heart beat. And I remember the image of you surrounded by pills and vomit, and the way your shoulder blades seemed to sharp to be in your skin.
I remember the way your mother cried at your funeral, and your family wearing different shades of black. I remember how even the sky weeped that afternoon. And I remember the smell of dirt as we said goodbye and prayed to God that this was just a bad dream.
I remember calling in sick to work the next day because even breathing seemed pointless if you weren't here to share the oxygen with.
I remember how you asked for us to not remember. And you said that we did not have a right to cry at your grave. So that's what I told your mother when I saw her doing just that, she said she remembered, but she was trying so hard to forget.