When I was about 15, I had a journal. It ended up being a series of letters I had written to a friend named Nick. Funny thing was that he was never really my friend. He spent a lot of time at his grandparents’ house down the road from us. They were great friends with my mum. So we’d occasionally pass glances and hellos as we passed each other in the alley. His grandfather would often send him to our house to drop off vegetables. He would always place them gently on the doorstep and I’d watch through the kitchen window as he’d walk away towards the end of the drive way.
Our conversations never progressed beyond hello and the occasional smile. A short while after beginning his apprenticeship at the Countdown butchery, he died. They told me it was an epileptic fit that killed him. Despite never really knowing who he was, his death shook me somewhat. I took the day off to attend his funeral, mainly in support of his grandparents.
That’s when the letters to Nick really started. In my first letter, I expressed my regret in never really saying more than hello. I gave myself the comfort of knowing he was ok with that. I’ll never really know for sure.
But he’s a pretty easy guy to talk to. May be it’s because he doesn’t talk back. Or maybe because to me, his kinda character is expressed in characterlessness. I mean, I haven’t assumed a personality for him. I’ve just decided to talk to him and he smiles. At least that’s what I think he does.
So yesterday, I bought a new journal and began with this…
It’s been a while…