I walk past the iron cemetery gates. I know they will be locked, as they always are, so it’s no use to even try. I gave up trying to get in through the gates a long while ago, and by just walking past it’s easy to tell they are locked even this night.

But it’s been so long since I came here last, though in the darkness of the night it seems as if nothing has changed at all. A full moon shimmers in the black sky and baths the walk in a faint light. I can clearly see all around me, though I know exactly where I am walking and how to get there. I’ve walked this path so many times that it would be nearly impossible not to know even step and every curve, even if it has been years since I was last here.

Funny, in a cruelly ironic way, how quickly time slipped by and yet how agonizingly slowly as well. Sometimes it feels as though it was eons ago I lost him, though at other times it seems to have been only moments ago I last held him in my arms as we said our final goodbyes. It’s the nights I wake up from my slumber after dreams of him that are most tantalizing, though.

I contemplate this as I slip quietly through the small wooded area behind the cemetery, but the thoughts don’t make me weep; I wept all my tears long ago. I will not cry any more. He wouldn’t have liked it, and besides, I don’t like it either.

I scurry up the old sycamore I have always used to climb over the fence. It’s bent at such a perfect angle for doing this; the trunk grows at a slight angle so it grows up and to the left and over the fence before dropping a few feet inside the cemetery, so really all I need to do is crawl across the limbs to the other side. I long ago engraved our initials into the trunk of the tree, for it seemed to be the bridge between our worlds; it was the essential link.

After I have scaled across the tree I slip through the maze of tombstones with ease. It’s really no heavy feat to find his headstone; it just seems to radiate some magical, enchanting light out to me. Even if it didn’t, I would still know; I’ve spent so many of my nights resting above his final resting place that I have the land memorized. I could never get lost here, though it seems I do lose myself here; I lose all sense of time and the outside world. I feel no remorse in losing myself here either; rather, I feel remorse that I may not remain lost here for all time.

I sink to my knees before his headstone and read the inscription, though I don’t need to; I know exactly what it says, and what it will say for an eternity.

Landon William McRiamm

Beloved son, beloved friend

1984-2000

It should say so much more than just those seven cold, apathetic words carved into stone. But then again, no amount of words could even begin to describe him. He was funny, though he could be completely serious when he needed to be, and he was kind, though he never put up with anyone’s insults, even when they weren’t aimed at him, and he was smart, though he would never brag about it or take his grades for granted. But his incredible traits seemed to melt away once you really knew him like I did.

He had beautiful thoughts, and beautiful dreams. He seemed like the average sixteen year old boy, only a little more; it was once you knew him that you realized that those thoughts and dreams were what made him seem so extraordinary. And he was extraordinary; undoubtedly extraordinary.

Yet, I don’t think anyone really did know him but me; he just didn’t let anyone else see the beauty that lay inside his heart. His secret, unspoken fear was being hurt again, so he erected walls and hid himself behind them. But he let me in.

His father had left him when he was only ten, though no one but me knew that. His mother had brought him here to begin a new life. Secretly, I thanked his father, for if he hadn’t left then I would never have met Landon, but my thoughts made me feel guilty. Landon knew though; he always knew, despite that I seldom told him of my often traitorous feelings. And he had once told me I was right in thinking it, and that he was glad for it as well for if his father hadn’t left he wouldn’t have moved, and so he wouldn’t have met me. I had blushed when he had said so that warm summer night.

I had known, and he had known, by that time, that we were simply meant to be together. I loved him, and while the feeling slightly scared me, it was intoxicating; I cherished every moment I spent with him.

Some may say it was just young love, but I know it was more than that. I’ll never be able to prove it though, at least not to those cynics. They are the ones who would merely say I just feel guilty for surviving while he did not, and that love has little to do with it. But I know the truth, and so did he; that’s all that matters to me at this moment.

I lie on the grass with my shoes laying a few feet away. I stretch and lift my gaze to the skies. Stars twinkle a glittering light to me, and I know he is out there, twinkling and shining, seeming to blend in but standing out at the same time.

A warm breeze blows through me as I think this thought, and I feel oddly content. It’s the first time I have felt truly at peace when thinking of him, and I relish in the moment. I bask in the warm moments we shared, and this night I sleep with fond memories rather than cold tears.

And wherever he is, he still loves me. I know it.

And I will never forget, but I can move on with my life now. Yet, wherever he is, I still love him. And he knows it.

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