When sadraque died, I couldn't feel anything.
I knew I was sad. Bent. Hysterical even. I knew it. But I felt nothing.
I got the call. I looked fleetingly at my boyfriend, standing on a dusty patio, at a house show he was playing. We had been drinking beers and playing cards. Waiting for a crunchy and morose metal band to finish their set.
A normal night. Pleasant. With a slight breeze and a general coziness. As winter finally fell way to spring, and the last threat of cold excused itself from the evening breeze.
' li mouri.' Walnes said.
Where hours if not days before I had been told that he was on the mend, taking a turn for the better. That the worst was over.
And I believed them.
Believed them when they said that God would not let sadraque die. That the spirit had him.
But, as in all things Haitian. When he died.
They said, yes, we are sad, but it is done. And he is in heaven.
Sure, we miss him. But he's gone.
I sat on a metal railing beside a parking lot on Marshall street. I choked back vomit as warm tears adhered themselves to my mascara and drew vulgar lines down my cheeks. Sweat and snot met at the creases of my nose, and fell into the cracks of my lips.
But I'm in Virginia, I said.
I've been gone.
I've been here. And he's been there.
So to say, well he's gone.
I thought, he's been gone.
And this is not real.
And while, I know it is real. Still, day after day. Every day. Since that disgusting day in March. I remind myself,
Your friend is not here.
God, please tell Sadraque how much I love him. Tell him I miss him. Tell him, even though I was in Virginia.
He was always with me.
