Cold hands and warm soul.

Today, I drove past your house, past the church where we said goodbye and the crematorium where I stood next to your body and pretended I truly believed you were gone.

On the verge outside that house - I crawled out the back of the taxi and onto my knees. Tears rolled down your face as you fell after me, laughing hysterically. I reached up but you dropped me back down. I lay on wet grass gazing at stars, listening to you wheeze beside me.

'Come on pig dog', you took my wrist. We stumbled along your drive, crept into your house. I woke up clutching your feet whilst you kicked me off.

I never knew grief. I was blessed with a mother and a father, grandparents who I never knew and ones which stayed with me until I was almost fully grown. Grief was so far from what we had. We laughed more than we spoke.

I can’t stop speaking about you. I tell the world about my friend who was and who still should be. Sharp tongued but kind hearted. Cold hands and warm soul.

Suicide is an ugly word and an uglier feeling. You don’t let go of someone’s hand, you’re stuck tight as they’re torn away. They shatter beside you, leaving shards in your skin that don’t heal over. They catch and drag and remind us of all that was left undone.

We are not important enough to blame ourselves. We can’t be held accountable for the fate of another. My mind knows, but there is nothing that can tell my heart that there wasn’t something else I could’ve done. You were in my my arms on Friday, and by Monday you had fallen through our fingertips. You are gone.

As another year passes, I can’t know where grief ends and remembrance begins. I don’t know when I will be able to pass your house without choking. All I know is that now there is peace for you and someday there will be peace for all you have left behind too.

Sadie Eleanor