I don’t remember the last time, but I remember so much more

Every year without fail, like clockwork. It starts with an almost funny feeling. Why is there a lump in my throat? As the days go by, it gets less funny. There’s a tightness in my chest. Past the 20th, my stomach starts hurting.

It’s 26th now. 3:50 am. The lump is still there, the chest is tight and the stomach is doing backflips. But I’m smiling. In my head there’s a scene. Clear as day.

You’re walking, almost tumbling, down the stairs. You get to the centre of the room, framed by the hallway to the dining room. “My poop is going gulu gulu in my stomach.” It’s a loud shameless announcement. You pause for laughs, but it’s not a long pause. You laugh before anyone else has the opportunity to. Then we all laugh. It’s impossible not to, you were infectious. And then you march on to the washroom on the right.

It’s one act play that goes on and on in my head. Enter stage left, dialogue, laughs, exit stage right. It’s quick. It’s memorable. I remember it. Clear as day?

It’s a story that’s been told to me so many times, I don’t know how much of it is true and how much of it is me constructing a vision of you. All I know is I can still hear you laugh.

It’s not easy to hold on to memories you made when you’re three, four, five. It’s not easy when you stop making them at five.

We were inseparable, joined at the hip. You weren’t just my best friend, you were an extension of me. As the internet would say, we shared a brain cell. A stupid, dumb, hilarious one.

I remember being in the back of your mother’s car, reaching up to the top trying to touch the ceiling. All we did was lose our balance and fall all over each other, it was as far as the sky.

Not to be a sore loser, but I hate that you won that game. The sky could’ve waited a little while longer. I needed you on the ground, I still do.

Every year I write something about you, because I’m terrified of forgetting you. It’s only this year I realised I don’t remember that last time I saw you.

I’ve been stuck on that the past few days. But I try to focus back on you. And I see you so clearly. I remember the you from stories and photographs and the corners in your house.

I remember you from under the stairs in your house. From the office room, tiptoeing around to make sure none of the papers are disturbed. From the balcony overlooking the TV room, watching your grandparents watch the news. From the mulberry tree in kolencherry, where Mattamma would pick out mulberries for us. From the bed in appa’s room, where the picture I always think about was taken on.

I remember coming to the hospital. I remember the waiting room, it was breezy, crowded. I didn’t see you. Amma and Appa told me you did too many backflips and your intestines got jumbled up. But I didn’t see you. Maybe it’s good I didn’t see you. I don’t want to remember you from the hospital.

But I didn’t see you ever again.

I talked to Mayya the other day. I’m so glad you met her. She’s old enough now to go buy saree for herself. She’s turning 22 this year, and I know you’d be so so proud of her.

Don’t worry though, I’m proud enough for the both of us.

I know I’ve told you many times that Baby’s a mini-you. I’m sure everyone has told you too. It’s crazy that you both have never met, some of the faces he makes it’s just like yours.

But he’s not so mini anymore. He turned 16 this year. I wish I could say that he grows up to be like you.

I got a tattoo this year. A star for my star in the sky. I definitely pissed off Kochamma, I saw her face soften when I told her its for you, but she’d already started shouting at me, and she couldn’t break character; but I knew.

Chikappa just smiled. Amma and Appa just smiled too. No one said anything. I know why. It’s too difficult to speak about you in past tense.

But I know that all of us find bits of you in everyone we see, and keep you alive in every way we can.

Appa went to see to you yesterday. Amma sent me pictures. It’s been 21 years. I knew you’ve been gone for long, but I never knew how long. You left before I figured out how to count.

I always thought I had you for longer, four years wasn’t enough. But when I look up at the sky I know that you’ll always be here. My north star.

I miss you.
Forever and always,
Your best friend.