Monday, May 05, 2008

'Jamina. Five years.

It was raining that day.

I remember thinking that it was just some stupid mistake. Thinking that I had to get home, because if I did, it'd all be okay. He wasn't dead. If I was home, I could prove that. I could change it.

I could show that it was just mistaken identity.

He wasn't dead. He couldn't be.

I remember getting inside, and Christine looking at me. She knew something was wrong, something was so very wrong, but I couldn't find the words to tell her.

I couldn't say it. "Ben is dead."

My Benjamina. God, he hated being called that.

Ben, who listened.

Ben, with the beautiful eyes.

Ben, with the quickest temper and the most amazing smile.

Ben, who laughed with me.

Ben, who was so young.

The tears didn't come until the funeral.

Every minute of that day will be forever etched into my mind.

Into my heart.

Grief is often so raw, so striking. I remember, every so often that I'd see his brother, when I was home for the holidays. Seeing him, so similar to Ben, thinking, just for a second that it was Ben, ready to call out, talk and catch up ...

Then, the realisation.

Ben's dead.

It's been five years.

Miss you, Benjamina.

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