For the Pensieve

One of us had fallen and we shielded him as we mourned his passing, and to me, death was a white sheet covering a frail body and a glass eye staring up at me. People sobbed, but a laugh escaped my body, for there stood my dead friend beside me, bottle in hand, fixing his usual sharp gaze on his own lifeless body. The mere act of looking up versus looking down makes all the difference in the world. The living grieving, pitying, reminiscing, outliving the dead. Heaven above, hell below, and an amused soul watching from the bardo. I think he winked at me then, and his favourite song played somewhere in the background, and his words floated up to me about death, dreams and friendship. And somehow, miraculously, even as they burnt his body to a crisp, I made my peace with his sudden departure into non-existence.

R.I.P., dear friend.

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