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Every Tuesday, at exactly six o'clock in the evening, we would meet by the old bell tower in town. This weekly ritual began while we were teenagers and still at school, when they tried to keep us apart and we told them we were at an afterschool club that met every Tuesday. I don't remember what his was, but I told my foster family I was at chess club and they immediately lost interest.
We never once broke it until today, nearly sixteen years later. I still went though, by myself. I'm not sure whether in tribute to his memory or just out of habit, but either way; I still went. I sat on the bench in front of the tower where we used to meet and I stayed there for hours, just staring into the crowds and thinking about him. We would people-watch sometimes when we sat here, making up stories about all the people walking past us. Sometimes we would sit and talk about nothing in particular and yet everything that mattered. Sometimes we would just sit in silence, enjoying each other's company and finding comfort in the one constant in our lives. Sometimes, when we'd been arguing, we'd bring books to read while we sat here, ignoring each other. Sometimes we would sneak alcohol in brown bags and get drunk, singing ridiculous songs in our terrible voices until the early hours of the morning. There were even times on this bench when we'd been arrested for being drunk and disorderly.
All that was over now, but I still went. With a brown-bagged bottle that I drank in his name whilst I watched the people walking past us and reflected on the many stories of many people that we'd invented over the years. There was no singing today, just drinking, reflecting and watching. I wondered why we'd never bothered to write down all those stories we'd made. I guess it didn't seem important at the time, but now he was gone I wanted to remember everything. All my memories of him were on this bench, and I couldn't remember half of them. I wondered if I'd ever remember them - the stories we made up or the countless conversations of nothing and everything. It was all just one big jumble in my head - fragments of things that didn't quite fit together; snatches of conversation that made no sense without context; bits of songs that were drunkenly shouted rather than actually sung. I tried to hum part of one, to remember the melody, but trying just conjured up images of him laughing at my inability to hold a tune. I sighed and wondered if I'd ever feel like singing again, or if his memory would haunt me every time I tried. Sobriety began to slip away into a haze of depression and I wondered if even drinking would ever be the same again. I wondered if my life was worth anything without him; I know if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here. I would have died a long time ago. I wondered if my time on Earth was up now that my saviour had gone, or if he had gone so that I could live on. I wondered what he would have wanted, but all that came to me was him laughing at my attempts to be deep.
That thought made me smile, and I stared at my bottle of whiskey in consternation. I'd nearly finished it off, and all I'd done was sit here moping about. That wasn't right. We never drank in depression and he wouldn't want me to start now. I knew better than that - drinking was always a happy occasion with him. He would have wanted me to be happy, even if it was without him. He would have wanted me to sing and be merry and I decided that's just what I would do. I decided that the best way to honour him would be to carry on with his way of life - with laughter and love. I decided to come back here next Tuesday, and every Tuesday after that. I decided to use my Tuesdays to think about him, to keep his memory alive. To drink and laugh and sing. I decided that next time, I would bring a notebook, and write down the stories of the people passing me on the street. I decided he would have liked that.