‘Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.’
- JM Barrie
There’s a large page-4 headline and a small picture. His face is olive-brown, tilted slightly towards me, the hand of a close friend across the back of his bare neck. In his early 20s, his eyes are coals with a certain spark; windows to the soul they say. His teeth are ivory white, his mouth wide open. I hear a cheer, a joyous yell. The foreground is blurred; the merriment of happy goings on, a bit of action. Good friends hamming it up. There’s a shock of dark windswept hair above a high forehead, his skin with the unblemished of the ever-young. I’ll call him Peter.
On Facebook I take a peek. I’m prying I know. Peter’s well liked, passionate and loved. There are kisses for all it seems – maybe too many – hugs instead of handshakes. Boisterous? Sure. There’s fun, family, and adventure in Europe.
Linkedin tells me he’s ambitious, hard-working; the outdoor type, full of plans for a bright future. ‘Just do it’ says Peter.
Twitter is spontaneous chatter, a bit of cheek `to keep you on your toes’.
I hear his chuckle on You-Tube; outrageous and loud. He’s wearing that freakin shirt for God’s sake!
There are Peter’s posts on the blogs of friends; encouragement, some teasing and some sympathetic.
Flickr has photographs; that’s Peter with his sisters; again with his girlfriend; that’s Peter, larger than life.
I turn off my computer, the coffee cold. Peter’s dead almost 3-weeks now, with no goodbyes. All that’s left is Neverland.