I couldn’t help but think now of where her life would go now she was gone. I suppose I done it to myself really. I transfixed on the reasoning for ages, only now coming to terms with what happened. Before that I drank. Silly? Stupid? All of the above? It would never be insisted that we didn’t give the girl a good send off. She weren’t just a girl. She weren’t just an anything really. But hell, no-one’s just an anything. We’re all something to someone. Whether you’re a tosser to one person, or the Virgin Mary to another. Funny that, ain’t it? You’re not supposed to discuss death with a kid, they say. Or maybe I just weren’t ballsy enough to do so myself. I’d rather rely on the real thing, probably ‘cause I’m too lazy to give a damn. But then again, who the hell expects death? Even those diagnosed with a terminal illness can outlive medical expectations. Anyway, all we have left are shattered memories. So who gives a toss?

It was insisted that she should have a “celebratory leave” whatever hell that means. I applaud the batshit lark who came up with those words together, I’d probably kill them myself. I usually think of a kid going to University, the parents a little lost, but happy the kid is making something of themselves. Not bloody death. Bastards! But, hey, if the need was felt that she should cross that threshold, then at least she went in style. I was one of many who loved her. I was one of many who admired her. I was one of many who wishes I was sober enough to have said, “goodbye.” I should have said, “goodbye.” Why didn’t I say, “goodbye?” A fancy car came round with flowers, this would be her last journey, saddened strangers hearing of this tragedy tearfully threw flowers as the cars slowly drove past. I walked into the room. Thousands of people were there, she was immensely popular. I guess I was in denial for the longest of times, it was scary to admit. I didn’t want to admit it? No choice of mine.

She’s dead. What little to comprehend, she’s dead. It hit me - she was never coming back. I had to bury my face - ‘cause everything hurt. My chest, throat, even my face. That’s what happens…

About her flowers! They all come out, lots of reds, and greens, and blues, and purples, and plenty of whites. All designed: ‘daughter,’ ‘sister,’ all beautiful. Little Wicker baskets were scattered all over the place, so plentiful, I almost choked on my tears. I noticed those baskets had that sodden stuff, that crap that keeps the flowers alive. A strange thing to notice, but was ever-present either way.
To me, though, the flowers were lifeless. I’m crying now. I should have told her I cared. I seek my reflection and say I’d done my best. But that’s just crap…