Sunday Postscripts: Who painted the moon black?

I spent a lot of my time at my International Relations classes perched next to Tim. He is a sweetheart, and on the first day of class, when I sauntered in late and plonked myself on the empty seat next to him he handed me the class materials, “here you go.” He picked up an extra set knowing someone will need them. Tim was one of my favourite uni-mates, we spent a lot of our time on freezing winter mornings at coffee places on George Street on the way to classes.

It was a couple of years later, and we no longer had common classes that he told me he met someone over cosy coffee. I was so happy for dear Timmy because he was just the type of person you always hope found love. He got together with the cute Mexican tourist he had met, moved over to Mexico and I promised I’d visit. I honestly did plan to go, but just never got around to it.

On Friday night I was agonizing over something petty when I found Timmy’s facebook status update rather stirring. He was trying to get back to Mexico from a vacation with his parents, and he had an incredibly sad day. I messaged him. The reply sent me into shock.

“Unfortunately Jose was murdered yesterday, so things are a bit tough, talk soon. xx”

My fingers froze, and I stared at the screen, and in an instant all the words I knew flew out of my head leaving only three alphabets in capital letters before me: WAT?

So I typed WAT? OH GOD!

Of course I could not stop thinking about it. It stuck. Some things in life stick. Some things are heavy. Like this.

So I sent him another message. A proper one that was more than those thin measly 7 words.

But  Tim stayed in my mind. He stayed there the whole Friday night, the whole Saturday, today. I checked back on his wall, and saw many of his friends sending their love.

I can see him when he called his friend and received the news. Heartbroken.

George Street, Dunedin, NZ

I can feel the incredible sadness.

And I can imagine him in that bright shiny room, beautifully decorated, looking out the window at the pretty garden when the lights suddenly went off. I can see him feeling his way around for something concrete to hold.

How frail are things.

I can see him reaching for his loved one and being reminded, time and again, he is not tangible no more.

And I can feel my heart breaking for him.

A friend of mine told me she was contemplating whether it was worse to lose a person to death, or to another person.

She concluded that death was worse, because it leaves a huge gap, and the uncomfortable uneasiness that you would never see this person ever again in this life. Then there is that constant ache that can never be comforted. Not for a while, maybe not ever.

Pining.

Sadness.

Loss.

Muy Triste. He says. Muy. Muy triste.

At the moment it is dark.

And his friends, including I, can only send our love, and hope all the love and support he has received and is receiving can hold him close, hug him, and carry him.

Hoping it will light up some lamps in that dark room.

And then he said in a reply to someone on his wall, “this too shall pass.”

Yes it will.

Dear Tim.

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