Vignettes

I’m in my car as Ali­cia Keys sings. It’s cold. Rain­drops fall on my wind­screen, my eyes defo­cus as I wait out the jam. It’s dark, but not late enough in the evening for the street­lamps to come on, and even gloomier than usual.

I have no idea what to say as I head to the hospital.

It was just a sim­ple visit to my girlfriend’s home, a week after return­ing from 14 days in Japan. Her dad turns around and they speak in Can­tonese, I don’t under­stand a word. She looks shocked. She says an old fam­ily friend, whom she met the week before fly­ing to Tokyo, has just passed away. In his sleep, of his first and last heart attack. No chance to say goodbye.

3 weeks ago, alive, jovial and jok­ing. 3 weeks later, gone.

She texts me out of the blue last week, hadn’t seen her in months and didn’t think she’d be back from over­seas so soon. Her mom has can­cer, she says. They just found out the night she got back, and the morn­ing I call, the doc­tor tells them she has two to three months left.

I’m in my car as Ali­cia Keys sings. It’s cold. I step on the accel­er­a­tor bit by bit, inch­ing closer to my des­ti­na­tion. Take these mate­r­ial things, they don’t mean noth­ing, it’s you that I want. All at once, I had it all, but it doesn’t mean any­thing
, now that you’re gone…