August

I awoke with a start in the dead of night, sweating, screams aligning themselves at the base of my throat. I knew it was a dream, but it wasn't pleasant. It was a prophecy. Seven days, someone whispered, seven days and he will be gone.

My first day on the job, overjoyed at being able to support my studies, like so many uni students, by supplementing rent and bills with some mindnumbing, uninspired retail job. But twelve missed calls from my father told me I had to go home, now.

On the Greyhound buses, Canberra to Sydney, prayer beads in my hand. But what could I do?

A room full of people, a tiny fragile figure lying desolately on the bed. I wasn't too late. But what was there left to say?

I read from the Qua'ran, held his hand, cried, kissed his forehead and let him go.

Nine years later and it still hurts as much as it did on that grey August afternoon.

R.I.P my friend.