To the person who makes me believe in a higher power

If you were sitting here next to me, I’d imagine you watching me with kind eyes, a faint smile on your face and an air of gentleness hovering around you. You would look exactly as you did in your pictures. Nineteen years old, a strong but soft build, and wavy brown hair falling on your head. As if, only for you, time had stopped. In my imagination, I do not see the dozen bullet wounds scattered around your body. I do not see your killer leave you lying lifelessly on the ground and leave. Even though I can only imagine what you look like, sound like, feel like, I can make up a pretty accurate imagination of you. Stories about you never leave your villagers’ mouths. The tragedy of losing such a beautiful soul so soon. The caring, gentle boy who made sure that his sister had a shoulder to cry on when some guy hurt her, that his brother was not alone in this world (even now. even when you’re not here anymore.) You died and the whole world shattered like a disk. Your parents and siblings groped about among the pieces, trying to put some kind of world together again. A cruel, evil world. A world they would never really be a part of anymore. And now you’re a feeling. You’re reassurance and safety and love and everything that is pure and warm and soft and gentle. You’re a tender presence, softly, quietly setting peace in your family’s souls. Which is what you are doing to me now. You reach out your hand and I wish — I wholeheartedly wish — that I could grab it with mine.