shoebox

My best friend, Sean, died 7 years ago. 

He secretly drank himself to death. We THINK he was an alcoholic - BUT he hid it so well, that even now I can't be sure. Maybe I don't want to accept that, because if he did that, and I didn't notice, then what does that say about me as a friend?

His parents were already dead, and his aunties cleared the family home. They asked me to take anything I wanted - and I should have taken some things - I regret that now - but at the time I wasn't thinking straight. I didn't take anything. 

On the last day, his Auntie gave me a shoebox. A simple battered box. In it were photos - parties, relatives, friends -  him, me - memories. Evidence.

We weren’t much for taking pictures, him and me. There wasn’t a lot to look at. I rooted in my parents house - hunted for some of the photographs that I might have of him. Of us. I had pictures of him. He had pictures of me. But, combined, there were only 3 images of us together. Not much for nearly 30 years.

I searched our images. Looking for answers. Could I have saved him? Questioning the images the way I couldn't question him. But the shoebox, our archive, doesn't have everything. In fact it doesn't contain much - not in terms of a life - or 2 lives. So much of what I remember is missing. With no evidence in the shoebox, what will become of our memories?

At the core of the archive - the shoebox - is a desire to remember, to have evidence, personal evidence. So Sean, I will make our evidence. Pictures we should have taken. Only 3 of these pictures are real, but I will make all of them true. I’m filling in the gaps - telling this story.

Our story.