tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5146676.post-906892052003-03-13T23:16:00.000-05:002003-03-13T23:21:40.000-05:00It's seems only but fitting that I can hear the distant thunder roar right now, announcing the coming rain. It rained the day of the funeral, but it wasn't quite like the weather tonight. Then it was wet and heavy, the greyness seeming to stretch on forever. It was one of those days that seemed like it would never end, the kind that stays grey and dirty even after the sun goes down. When the rain finally did come, it poured and did not cease until we had all left the safety of the church. It reflected our moods perfectly. <br /> <br />It has been a year and half now since our friend Sascha Grothe died. He was fifteen at the time, and I had only known him for a year. His death shattered my world and my outlook on life. It made me tougher, stronger, and more cynical; while also making me more of a romantic and a dreamer, and less inhibited. Life's been harder since he died. Now I look back and reminisce about our freshman year, about how completely innocent we all were. People change, yes; but I tend to mark changes between my friends from what they were like before he died, and what they're like now that he's gone. <br /> <br />Right now, the thunder is dry and muffled but the lightening is fierce. It lights up the whole sky, the pavement and my room...the thunder being an afterthought of sorts. In a way, it also reflects my mood. For the first year, I would find myself crying to sleep whenever I thought about him, which was almost everyday. Now, he's been pushed back a little. He isn't gone, no, he's always lurking somewhere in my mind- but he has been buried in my self-conscious so that I can get on with my life. I'm staring at a picture right now, but I can't cry. I miss him terribly, but I don't think I can bring myself to cry any longer. There is an aching in my chest, and my throat is begining to close up, but it's been too long. I've used up all my tears it seems, or at least, cannot spend any more on someone who is but a memory. <br /> <br />When I began typing, it was dry. Now the rain is pouring down again. As I typed those last few sentences above, the tears started welling up in my eyes. I couldn't help it. It's not his death that upsets me any longer, it's the thought that I could no longer cry for him. It's saddening that so wonderful a person can only exist in memory now. Sad because memories are exaggerated, warped, twisted. Sascha deserved much better then that. He deserved a full, long life and nothing less. Unfortunately, we don't always get what we deserve. He would have been seventeen years old today. <br /> <br />Happy Birthday, Sascha. <br />Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05272737831055066095noreply@blogger.com