Sixteen short and sweet and sour years

Maybe that is the tragedy. That we had a taste of what having you in our lives was like, next to us and with us and sometimes a little further away from us. But always still here, somewhere near enough for me to call for you and for you to hear. Sixteen short and sweet and sour years. The way we saw you grow and blossom and sometimes crawl back in your shell. How I saw you grow older and wiser and yet sometimes you’d do stupid shit because that is what being a teen is like. How I heard your laugh grow deeper and heavier over the years, more like a man. The way you tested boundaries and made new boundaries or something disregarded them and did your own thing because that’s just what was right at that time. But what a deep and dark thinker you were, in a world where thinking is among the most ugly and deadly of diseases. You got ill, ill with yourself and love and death and the world and life and all. You got ill with all there is. Then you died by own choice by own hands by own self by your own your own your own. Maybe that is part of the tragedy too. Choosing to leave choosing to go choosing to leave behind what you left.
Maybe that is the real tragedy. Those sixteen sweet and sour and oh so short years.