It seemed impossible, to move on that is. Because every time I tried something would bring me back to her. Bring me back to the image of her face, the sound of her voice. I even tried to get rid of the pictures, the letters we shared. Anything of her possession, anything that reminded me of her. But every time I tried, something stopped me. I managed to successfully tear up one picture before breaking down completely and attempting to gather it back together. It sits in a frame on my night stand now.

          A specialist might say I’m subconsciously refusing to deal with her death. That somewhere deep in my brain I can’t accept it, I cant move on. Thinking she might still be alive. Even though I saw her body, her body clad in a silky black dress. It made her look more pale, she seemed so peaceful like most dead people look I suppose. They told the little children to pretend like she was sleeping, and I could see how easy it was to think that way. Not unless you noticed that there was no sound, no movement, no constant rising of the chest.

        The picture on top of the coffin didn’t even remotely resemble the girl laying in it. In the picture her skin glowed, her eyes sparkled, so full of life. Her cheeks were rosy, not the same cold tint they were now. Her lips were slightly pink, I liked that vision of her. So full of life, and happiness. We were supposed to be together, we could have been in our field. The same way we were every Saturday.

        Memories were all I had now. And what was I supposed to do? Spend my entire damn life thinking about what could have been? Thinking how maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t been such an idiot, then she wouldn’t be dead. She would still be mine, she would laugh with me. Smile with me, we would walk hand in hand, we would kiss. We would love each other. I wondered what her last thoughts were. What went through her mind as the life slipped out of her, as she let go of her soul. It almost made me mad. Selfish of me to think that she had to fight, for me, for us. But I remembered her last words. “Just leave me alone” and then “I hate you” I saw the tears again, I saw the rain again. I saw her, for the last time  and realized that she didn’t want to fight for me. She hated me and it ruined me the way I ruined our love.

       So I couldn’t move on, and living in the memories would only bring me pain. I’ve read about people who’ve killed themselves, because that was the only way to recover. The idea has visited my mind several times, and frankly, I greeted it with far too much enthusiasm. How convenient would it be, to let go of everything, the memories, the pain, the life without her. I looked at the ring on my neck and compared it to the one on my hand. How would I grow old with this? Would I lay on my death bed and stare at the rings, watching my life escape me. I don’t know.

I’ve never known how to deal with death. It’s not one of those things you ever get over. But I guess it was time to start learning how.