I thought that what happened last year was a total tragedy, with no light at the end of the long dark tunnel. Ironic, really, since I had always been so optimistic and loving before the incident, always insisting that every cloud, no matter how grey, how heavy would always have a silver lining. It seemed that my own philisophy was being challenged.
The incident that I refer to happened a year ago now. Exaxtly a year, for that matter. That's why I'm laying flowers at his grave-sunflowers. He always told me they were his favourite. He said they always brightened up his day, with their vibrant yellow colours. Vibrant like him. I always loved how he could warm someone's day out with just one kind word, or a lovely smile. He was so loving. So unashamed to be.
A year ago today, Cliffe's life and light was taken from the world, and someone punched my chest open and wrenched my heart, still beating, out. That's how it felt. It was a Tuesday. The morning was bright, with a healthy breeze to mark the beginning of the Summertime. This Summer would be great. We'd spend hours talking about our hopes and dreams in the bright mornings, the sun shining her healing light on our faces.
We walked along the small but busy street, hand-in-hand while he talked about his dreams to be an actor, and a darn good one he would be, in my personal opinion. A tiny scream disturbed my serene thoughts. A little boy stares on his horror as a car driver struggled to slam his breaks to avoid running over the child who had fallen off his bike in the middle of the road. Without a second thought, he ran into the midde of the road, pushing him out of the way, into safety. I screamed as I saw the scene happen in slow motion. He tried to jump out of the way to where the child stood shaken but safe. He couldn't move that fast. The driver slammed his breaks on but the car still slammed into Cliffe, slamming the life out of his body.
He was thrown like a ragdoll onto the hard cobbled rooad. I might have screamed, can't remember. I don't remember having any actal physical feeling, but I know that somehow I ended up beside his body. Blood lay matted on his dark blonde hair. He looked serene, like he was sleeping.
It wasn't real. It couldn't be. I knew well that it wouldn't be real. Sure he was hurt, but after a rest and maybe some painkillers, he'd be fine. I saw us sitting in his bedroom, me playfully pushing him back into his bed, as he called me an old matron. We talked and laughed, holding hands. It was bliss. In my vision, I held his hand and sand his favourite song to him. He always insisted that I had a beautiful singing voice, and could be Christine from Phantom of the Opera. I'd just laugh it off, of course, but he knew that he was brightening my day. His little gift to everyone.
No. No he wasn't okay.
I stood in the casualty ward, the middle aged doctor telling me that she was so sorry for my loss and that she had done all she could do. I just remember thinking that she was silly to be sorry because it wasn't her fault and anyway her couldn't be dead. That was just dumb. Why would she say that?
He was though.
For the next few weeks, I was trapped in a trance. I walked and talked and slept and ate, but I didn't live. I existed, but I didn't live. I was just there. Just existing. I didn't think. I went t work every day and then appeared home. That was it. Days off were spent staring at a television screen. I did nothing with my life. Did I have a life?
A friend called one day. She greeted me with a smile and a hug, but I knew that she saw that I was a zombie. After we made coffee and sat down she did something I really didn't expect. I think she penetrated my head void of emotion. My heart, empty and emotionless.
'Sarah.' she started. 'You don't have to say anything now. I know you're upset. I do want you to listen though. What happened to Cliffe was a tragedy. It really was. Let's be honest, thouh, this isn't the answer. This isn't the way to cope. He wanted to be an actor, didn't he? And he campaigned for gay rights. You told me that when you campaigned with him you had great fun. Remember him with his life of love and hope and not his tragic death. He wouldn't want this, Sarah. Think about that. If it was you-I mean, god forbid, but if it was, would you want him to do this? To self destruct?'
The talk touched me in ways I never could have imagined. No, I wouldn't want that. I'd want him to shine his light to the world and serenade everyone and live on the edge as he always did. He ended his life showing a child the beauty of life and how much we should love it. I think that's beauful in a way. Now, I love to walk outside and smell the air and salute the sun and...well, everything. I live life to the full. I even work in Philadelphia now, on the streets with the many people who are homeless now. In so many of them I see his spirit, and I love it. The love of life is enough to bring tears to my eyes now. I embrace it with every fibre of me, every beam of my soul. I live my life for the dream that Cliffe and I once ha, to travel and love and explore. I know hes proud of me, still the beautiful young man smiling at me as he sings to me. He will never leave.
One evening, recently, I sat on the beach, his favourite place, with his brother, who he called his best friend. We watched the sun go down behind the ocean as we discussed our favourite memories of him, laughing, smiling. That's what he'd want. I know that now.
Even in death, Cliffe makes my life a better place. Now I look back and see all that he taught me. He has taught me to love life, always. Life is beautiful, and warm and loving, we just don't notice it all the time.
I feel unashamed as I sing his favourite song once again and think of him. I imagine him lounging on his bed, smiling warmly at me. He's telling me to stop being silly, and that he will never ever leave, but that I have to live. He says he loves me, and sings to me 'the Music of the Night.'
I can't help but smile as I think of him. Life really is beautiful.
