Three years ago, I lost a friend.
His death -like all death- was painful. In some ways, it was unexpected. He was just in his twenties. Fresh out of college and more than ready to face the world. He is a big guy, and I always like the fact that when we hang out, I can hide behind his back and our other friends can’t guess where I am. He was a jolly man and he was a happy crazy friend. Everybody in our batch loved him, there’s no denying that.
We had a somehow special bond since he’s my big sister’s boyfriend. I’ve watched them begun as friends then somewhere along that time, fall in love with each other. From a distance, I witnessed how their love grew and how they held hands to survive the rocky parts of their relationship. I respected him – as a person, as a friend, as a part of the family.
And then one day, I woke up with text messages from almost all my friends and the multitude of Facebook status asking to pray for him. Since I’m already here in the city, I have very vague idea of what happened. I tried calling my big sister but she failed to answer the phone.
And then the confirmation happened. I received one text from big sister. “He’s gone.” And I felt raw pain hit me on my chest. Questions of why, how and the denial came. But the Facebook posts wishing him eternal rest and happiness is like salt being rubbed on fresh wound.
He was too young to go. He was full of life. He’s like Jack Frost, always fun, happy and bubbly. When we lost him, we didn’t just lost a friend – we lost a brother, a part of us.
It took me three years before I can write about his death. At times, I wonder why did God took him so early. I bet I’ll never know the answer.
But in his demise, he taught me one more valuable lesson – learning to live again after a part of you is lost.