vii. I still have your phone.
vi. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The Ferris wheel rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder. I had to look at it every day on the ride to school. But it still hurt a little less than the pitying glances cast my way when no one thought I was looking.
v. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here. That the hollow thumping in my chest would be solid again. That we could still have a future, a family, a wire terrier puppy with an oversized backyard to play in, that we could have all those things. Together.
iv. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.
iii. The TV was too loud. That's what I would remember later. The TV was too loud but the room was too quiet as I waited with your parents in the lobby for news.
ii. I didn't see the crowd that left the boardwalk and gathered on the beach. I barely registered the flash of red and blue lights - I only saw you, skin pale as the stretcher they were loading you on to, blue shirt stained black like a death sigil.
i. Someone was drowning. You cast an arm out pointing - there was someone out there in the dark water drifting further and further from shore.
You asked me to hold your cell phone.