A Late Eulogy

17 years ago, one of my closest friends put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Why? I have no idea. I can only assume that it was from some deep seated depression that he never discussed, never let come to the surface. Oh there were plenty of times for it to come up as we spent most of our days together studying for exams, dissecting cadavers, and peering through microscopes. He and I would talk about what life would be like after the big day when we would turn in our short white coat (traditionally worn by medical students) for the regality of the long one. Graduation was but a few short years away and man, were we ready for it.

But only one of us made it.

The thing I regret most is that I never got to say goodbye. One day he was here, the next he was not. There are still so many questions I have surrounding that time that will remain unanswered. Why did he do it? Why didn't he come to me for help? Why did he think life was so terrible that death was a better option? He was obviously tortured by some silent demon, a dark and petulant creature filling his head with falsehoods. He let these thoughts control and twist his perception of reality. That was the only way this could have happened.

At your funeral, I could not bear to have you leave. As I squeezed my eyes tighter, I thought I could keep your essence here if I just concentrated hard enough. I was so focused on the hurt, the anger, the sadness that I missed the beautiful, soft violin playing in the background. Bach's Ave Maria slowly seemed to grow louder in my consciousness forcing me to open my eyes and pay attention.

Pay attention to the fact that you were gone and you were not coming back.

Pay attention to the fact that even though you were gone, there were others that were still HERE.

Pay attention to the fact that I must go on. For both of us.

As that soft melody drifted through the church, I couldn't help but feel your spirit floating higher and higher with each note. Without care or constraint, you were free at last from whatever mental anguish you harbored.

I miss you, my friend. Always have. Always will.