Dear Jazz

• Gabrielle O'hagan, Grade 7
• Poetry
• 2011

Dear Jazz,
In movies, when people’s best friends die, they always go into some sort of temporary depression. They take counseling, and sometimes they’ll start drinking to help themselves cope. But in the end, something always happens to make it turn out right. Maybe they find a new friend, and they’re able to move on. They remember their friend with smiles and love. Something like that. I used to always believe that was true, too. It’s not, Jazz. Well, not with me, anyway. With you dead, I want to shut out the world. Block it. I don’t want to hear anyone talk to me, hug me, or tell me everything is going to be alright. Because it’s not, Jazz. Not without you.
Part of what happens in movies is right. I go to a counselor. A nice lady named Deanna. She tries to help, but it can never work. Not when I’m the One who murdered you.
Sometimes, at night, I’ll lie awake in bed for hours on end; recalling every single detail about the worst night of my life. Not being able to breathe when the car spins out of control. My head hitting the gravel with a sickening crack. The car in flames. But most of all, you, Jazz. I remember screaming your name. Cradling your head on my lap and sub- consciously feeling the tears bursting from within me, as I gazed into your vacant eyes. The amount of tears, Jazz. You should’ve seen. I didn’t even know I had that many. I called your name so much. It was a sort of last, unrealistic hope that you might be alive.
When the ambulance arrived, they couldn’t pull me from your side. I just wanted the world to stop. To let me scream my pain and sorrow and loss out to the world, so everyone could hear. I didn’t want anyone to touch me or you. I just wanted to sit and cry.
I got half of my wish. I didn’t get to sit there with you, but I got to cry. God, I cried. If you had’ve been there, you would have given me two tight slaps and told me off because I was letting my make-up run. You should have been there.
I didn’t deserve the hug and shoulder to cry on from your mum. I didn’t. I wished she had of screamed at me and called me a murderer. Because at least that’s what I deserve. That’s what I am, Jazz.
I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry. One more hug from you, one more smile. Just one hour, or one minute even, just to say goodbye, and tell you how sorry I truly am. Of course, sorry can’t exactly explain how I’m feeling right now. It’s like a big mix of all the bad emotions, hidden away inside me. Like a bomb. Ticking. Waiting to explode.
If I could go back in time, Jazz, I would. But I can’t. So I am just going to have to settle with this pathetic letter, and hope that wherever you are, you can read it and understand that it should have been me and not you.
I’m sorry,
Kaitlyn