Oh, boy, stop your crying

Soon it’ll be death that’s dying

Oh, boy, stop your crying

Soon you’ll be a man...

- "Tomorrow", U2

I.

The call comes in the middle of the night, waking us from our slumber that keeps us unaware and blind. It comes in the middle of the night, the early evening, the pre-dawn hours, but it is always the same. The call that changes everything, nothing is ever the same again. The call that cuts off life into "before" and "after". Can you remember where you were when the call came?

II.

The call came after we came back from the wedding, where we laughed and danced and celebrated everything that was joyous and living. When you heard the news, you put a hand to your throat and the gasp that came out of your mouth was as sharp and bright as the diamonds you wore at your ears. Tears sprang out from the corners of my eyes, soft jewels of no value; so many tears cried by so many people, no diamonds those.

III.

I remember your face before the call came. You were bright and popular and funny, intelligent enough to make the teachers like you, enough of a smart aleck to make the other students your loyal admirers. You were the most popular in school. I remember what you wore the day of. You were always such an avid cricket fan. You used to shout and argue the merits of the West Indies over Australia anytime, you were always willing to take up the challenge. He’d taken you to the championship game that summer in London; it was your fondest memory of him.

IV.

I remember your face afterwards, when we didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know, we lacked the grace and the rituals of adults, we were clumsy, awkward, all of us plunged into a world where adults lost their sovereignty, parents no longer held their godlike status. Instead of them taking care of us, we realized that it was we who had to take care of them. You grew up first, you opened the door to that world for us. You were already through the doorway and we lagged behind, frightened by your pale face, the rings under your eyes.

V.

I was feeling sick to my stomach before ringing the doorbell of your house, clenching my hands in nervous, sweaty fists, as I rehearsed what I would say to you when I saw you. What words were right? What did you need to hear? I was a speechless, tongueless fool in your presence, you and I who shared so many secrets and words and laughter and jokes. You loved to crack corny jokes. Where were your smiles and where were my words, that day that you had to go and put him in the earth?

VI.

We found the words. "I’m really sorry." "It was so sudden." "Thank God he..." "You have to be strong, she needs you now." And then, after we found the words, we found the silences, and they were much more forgiving. Your hands were cold, you had torn and pulled a piece of tissue into shreds while you talked. When we got up to leave, you stood up and they fluttered to the ground, one twisted piece for each silence that we spoke to each other.

VII.

All it takes is one phone call, to remind me, to throw me back into time when I wasn’t tall and confident, and your pain was a new wound in previously unmarked skin. It can come at night, or in the morning, or the heat of hardest afternoon, but it is always the same. Death becomes us all, in the end. I’d rather believe in the gardens and cool breeze than the aching finality of nothing, not for me, but for all the ones we loved. I need to see you there, in my mind that will not rest, even when I am supposed to be asleep.