A saw held by a stranger buzzes behind me. Window frames that held glass now wear wood. I speak with friends I regularly message but rarely see, and with people that I am meeting for the first time. We stand on the sidewalk in front of the big Victorian where you lived.

We still breathe.

We exhale sorrow.

I held flowers. They held cellphones. Death leaves so much to do.

The trees around us have no buds. The ground is a mess of mud and sawdust. We’re wearing hoodies and light jackets as we weave your name throughout sentences, talking about you. Less than two days before, we were talking directly to you.

I wish I could talk directly to you.

Grief grabs people in different ways. Death comes for us all, eventually. You’re too young, too soon, too sudden. You were a newer friend, less than 2 years of knowing you, and I liked you a whole lot. I enjoyed and admired your wit, the way you lived life so whole heartedly, the wild things you got involved in, and your kindness. I’m always seeking people who make living feel less lonely. You, you absolutely were one of those people. I was enjoying the version of my Buffalo that had you in it. I met you through a message board of friends, and we all correspond every single day. We still have your words, but we do not have you.

I stare at your fire-tinged home. I am shocked, and angry, and really sad. I keep thinking

you’re supposed to still be here

and you’re not.