Driving in the car to work this morning. The sky was grey. My headlights were on. Just another dreary November morning. The radio was playing unseasonably sunny pop music. I think it was Kylie.
Then without warning my heart sank and I burst into tears.
You see, this week is the thirteenth anniversary of my best mate’s death.
After thirteen years you would think that time should have healed all those old wounds. And for the most part it has.
It’s this time of year that my body, my whole being, just can’t seem to forget.
November is the month of remembrance, after all.
My best mate died in the early hours of Remembrance Sunday, 11/11/2007, in a car crash. He was 31.
I was 33 then. I’m 46 now. Today the passing of these years without him still has the ability to shock. I found myself driving in my car, saying out loud “he’s dead” in between great sobs of grief that I haven’t felt for a long time.
I know these tears are healing; I’ll be OK by the end of the week. I think there is a physical need to remember, as if my body can’t forget the trauma of that day, thirteen years ago, that left an imprint on my whole being.
He’s gone, but I’ll never forget.