I’ve been trying to write something for you all summer. I have a Google Doc open for you, with paragraphs of varying length and style, unfinished and unpolished.
The fact that you’re not coming back hits me hardest at times where I picture you with me. At Smokehouse at 2 in the morning. On top of the Fire Trail, looking out on all that we had explored. Walking off the field, after losses and victories alike. At home, playing FIFA. Sometimes we’d talk about college, and you’d promise me that we would meet up at UC Berkeley for grad school, because you were going to get a 4.0, and graduate with honors. At Berkeley High, you had been the one who told me to to stop worrying about what came next. In those conversations, you were all about the future. You told me about all that we would accomplish. How could I argue with you? In those moments, we dreamed.
This kind of tribute hurts to write, mostly because of how unfinished it feels. My writing feels halted because I could write so much more, and it all still wouldn’t feel right. There was more in store for us; instead our story stops short.
It is much harder to dream without you.