Sylvia Tera Swagger
You have been dead for over a year. I should have known better, but the signs were so bright that I looked away.
Do you remember that day when I was crying, and you also wanted to cry, but you didn't? Because then both of would us be crying and there would be no one to wipe the other's tears. For the same reason, when one month back your ghost cried to me on the phone recounting the details of your last moments, I didn't cry. That day, or any day after that.
I shared the news with many friends naively assuming rather than hoping that sharing the news would somehow lessen the impending pain. I resembled the person who has a revolver put to his temple not knowing if and when the trigger would be pulled.
You told me who had killed you. For a long time, I avoided seeing his face, fearing falling into an abyss after being able to more vividly imagine the moment when he thrust the knife into you and your face after that. But when I did, his face looked at me, as innocently as your's always did, saying that he had only committed the crime of loving you.
I still think of you, and habit will while away some more time. I didn't know it then but I realize now that I lied when I told you that after you leave, it would mark the end of me as well. It hasn't. The trigger never went off, Sylvia.
I am thankful for the years you spent here with me. But as with things that end on a bitter note, the mind buries deep the happy moments, builds a tombstone over it and forgets the cemetery.
I think I know why the trigger never went off. Don't they say that time heals everything! I think this last year when you've been gone has healed me.
Know that I know that you weren't completely black and I wasn't completely white. We were but shades of grey, you a little darker than me. And Irene was a rainbow. You left for a better place Sylvia but you stole her from me.
Bad timing, Sylvia. Bad timing.
Yours no more,