Today, it's six years ago, he left. I still know the way, he used to look at me. It always made me feel good. I miss his blue eyes, blue like the sky. When I lost myself in them, I felt full of energy. But now this time is over. Since this day, when I was nineteen, I've always felt powerless. I can't stop hoping - dreaming that he will come back, even if I know this never will happen. He turned his back and then-, to think about it makes me cry. He was gone forever. It's getting harder and harder to remember his face, his voice, the way he moved and talked to me. Every day there is one thing more missing. Like a puzzle of thousands of pieces. The more pieces you lose, the harder it is to get the puzzle together and to recognise the picture. There are parts which vanished completely. I try to remember but it's impossible. More tears are flowing over my cheeks.
Suddenly I can feel a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to cry!"
I turn around and look into the person's face. He looks like him, just older. The tears are still pouring out of my eyes. "What are you crying for by the way?" How can he even dare to ask such a question? My heart beats faster, because I'm angry. I don't know what to answer and I don't have to since he adds: "I mean after this long time..." He's right. Exactly six years, that's quite long and still I'm crying for him, still wasting my time by thinking of him. What else can I do? He'll never come back again. Looking at this person makes me cry even more because he resembles him that much. "It's all my fault. He wouldn't have gone if I had...", my voice breaks. That's too much. Looking at a person that could be him and then looking at his gravestone. I know he's dead, he can't be alive. I know that but I want to believe he's alive. I want to believe he'll come back someday. "What did happen that day?", he asks in a gentle voice. Still I can feel the soft pressure on my shoulder. "We were quarrelling about something completely unimportant - in the middle of a street. He was shouting. He said awful things to me. Me too. I hurt him with my words as well. As he turned around to cross the street he was still roaring at me. I couldn't say anything. My voice was gone. A car - he crashed into a car. I couldn't warn him.", I tell him the story sobbing and with interruptions because my voice breaks from time to time. He's only listening. "So, why is it your fault?", he asks after I finished. Suddenly my head is empty. There is merely this single question. "I didn't...", I stumble, "I didn't warn him." "That's it?", he asks in a way which is hard to describe. "We were fighting. - If only I had been able to warn him. Then he would be still alive.", I stutter, not really knowing what to say. "I can't see that he died because of you. I say it's not your fault." I'm stunned. How can he be that sure? Because I don't replay anything, he continues: "You didn't drive the car and you didn't tell that person to cross the street. How can it be your fault? Even if you could have warned him, it would have been too late. So, please, stop crying about that." And I do. I stop crying. I wipe out the tears and for the first time, I really can see the man's face. He does not really look like the man I once knew. He doesn't look at all like him. I thank him, turn around and leave him behind me. Once more I buy a bundle of roses. As I return to the grave, the man is gone. I kneel down beside of it. One after the other I put the roses on the six-year old grave. With my fingers I follow the grooves in the gravestone which form letters. "I hope you're all right", I whisper, "Farewell!" I raise myself and leave the graveyard without looking back.
Rally
