Some kind of Reflection.

This is the first time I've been here since you haven't been here. I thought that when I had seen you lying still I finally knew. But when I walked in last night and saw your library--meticulously organised and unbelievably nerdy--it became overwhelmingly true.

These were yours. You picked them, you learned from them. It was obvious that you had great aptitude in the field and were poised to make great contributions. How far would you have gone? 

How many of these did you read? Which ones were you looking forward to? 

I walked in and there was a book case on every side. Then they seemed to grow like they took up the whole room. I tried to not be overwhelmed, to remember your epilogue, but I hated seeing all the books that you'd never use again. And when I noticed your sneakers on a table of things to be given away, I broke down.

I'm surprised by how much I miss you and I feel a deep, rotten ache for my friend who knew you best. I don't know how to touch it, grief like a piece of hot metal. I could tap it for a second here and there, but can't pick it up or hold it. I guess we wait.

This second-person narrative seems funny but I'm going to leave it because you may be the first person who affirmed my writing before I knew I was a writer.

I'll close with a better narrative:

Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, because when we are clothed, we will not be found as naked. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. Now it is God who has made us for this very purpose and has given us the Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.