And so another dear friend has passed away, and once more it falls to me to be the strong one, the clearinghouse through which all information must pass. It is an honour and a heartache that I cannot turn down. Her partner has no skill at this, and I would not see him suffer needlessly. And so…
I must take charge of some of her things, her music, her instruments. How can it be that her guitar has not unstrung itself in grief, and that it’s still fine, when she is not? How can the voice of my bandmate be still, when there are CDs with her on them, and when I can still hear and see her in my mind’s eye? I want her to still be here, her alive, sarcastic self, but her reality slips through my fingers like sand, like water, and I cannot work the spell that would breathe life into her again.
No more will we see that cocked eyebrow, that narrowed eye as she tells us that “one of us” is one note off in our harmony, and then listening to the cut once more before singling out the person and changing the note. No more smile and thumbs up from the other side of the stage. No more.
She has slipped away into the night, taken that boat across the grey waters to the Undying Lands. In grief, I will sing her home, for I will see her no more on this side of the veil. Another piece of my heart gone. At this rate, my chest will be empty long before I’m dust.