To a boy that has a name

I remember you. Today, I remember you as a boy. As a friend. I remember you through the notes where you had written what you won't become. Evidently, no one was sure about you not living those dreams. But this evening, I waded through my drawer, and I remembered you through the slam book, through your legible handwriting that strained the eyes.

It is not that I need a reminder to remember you. I do not need to look at the picture where our faces had lit up in exhilaration before I remember you. I remember you in every breathe that I take even if I do not mention your name or any that sounds like it in months. I remember you and your faces and your expressions. They are now nightmares that are trapped in my subconscious. I remember you in the names that you bear with other people.

As much as I remember you, I also forget you. I also try to outlive you in my subconscious. A boy has a name for a reason but I am too hinged and predisposed to living that I do not know how to call yours any longer. And as people have their coping mechanism, so I ascribed you a John Doe. In that way, I am able to remember you without the strings of grief or emblem of sadness hanging around my neck like a jade necklace.

Humans are not to grief the living, but every night, I grief you in the body of a man who bears your name. And it irks me. Chisom says grief is just love with no place to go, but this grief here has a home, and I hate it that everytime it returns, it is always welcomed with warm embrace.