He had cancer, lymphoma to be precise.

I didn’t see it coming. Not one bit. I knew the treatments weren’t working. I knew that. When I last saw him he was tired, pale and weak but he smiled and he laughed and he was still so normal. I never, not once thought that he could die. But he was dying the whole time and I never said goodbye.

But if I’d known what could I have said?

You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. I had a crush on you when we were growing up. I always thought you were cute because you could quote verbatim from The Simpsons and you liked Spongebob even though you were in your twenties, but you were never embarrassed about it, because it’s a damn good cartoon. You didn’t deserve this. You would have made a good husband and father. You were a good brother to your little sister, I can’t begin to imagine what she is going through. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I will not forget you. I promise.

I’ve been waiting for someone to tell me I’ve got it wrong. I misunderstood. I’ve been making a fool of myself for no reason, because he’s alive. And I still can’t comprehend the idea that I’m never, never again going to talk to him, never so much as see him again.

The funeral is next week. I hope it is closed casket, because I don’t want to see him lying there. Because it’ll mean he’s really gone forever. And I want to keep the hope, the idea that I’ll just bump into him later.

This Friday 25th of August is Daffodil Day. Buy a flower or a badge or just donate. Because it is ridiculous that a couple of rogue cells can destroy so many people’s lives.