It’s weird writing a eulogy directly to someone, on their Facebook wall.

It’s weird because you’ll never read it, but social media gives us the ability to craft a response anyway. A personal way of coping with the grief, laid out for everyone to see. A time capsule, preserving the scant thoughts upon hearing the news, time and date stamped, echoing through eternity…or until the servers click off. 

I didn’t know until today. Facebook’s algorithm, the one that hid your infrequent updates from my feed, today brought a message from a stranger writing on your wall. A search confirmed it. I’ve thought about you on and off lately, little things remind me of you (a train journey through the station you met me at for the weekend we hung out together years ago, The OC theme tune that woke me from a drunken slumber when I crashed on your floor, rediscovering the Auf der Maur album while having a tidy) but I didn’t do anything about it. 

I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but I regret it. Even a simple brief Facebook messenger conversation would’ve been something. It’s been too long since we spoke last - a length destined to extend for infinity, now. Knowing that I can’t change that is the horrible part. I had my chances and squandered them. I hope that you’re happy now, that you’ve found peace. I could never hug you and tell you it’s going to be alright, as much as I wanted to. I’ll never forget you. When I think back to the friendships forged on the Auf der Maur forum (and if it weren’t for her, and the band opening for her so many years ago, my life would be very different), seeing Jess’s roller derby pictures, or Emma’s updates about her fledgling business, it’ll make me sad that you’re not there to see them. 

Thank you for our brief friendship, Sarah.