Tomorrow it will be two years since I found out about Richard Simpson. I still remember it quite vividly: the trip to Weston, the two men outside the village hall, and the long, cold road back. It still hurts. Rich deserved a long, happy life. I was expecting an invitation to Richard and Michelle’s wedding. I wanted to discuss the lord of the rings with him one day. I had seen myself occasionally visiting them, growing old together, talking about school, remembering.

I still think of him, from time to time, but when I think too much about it, itt seems to grab my heart and squeeze it. I think about Michelle: she is still hurting, of course. I feel so sorry for her, but there’s fuck all I can do about it. Regardless of where you stand on the special schools debate, this is one of the consequences of growing up in such institutions: from time to time the ghastly question of which of your friends you’ll loose next crosses your mind.

Dad would probably tell me to stop being mawkish at this point. He’d be right, but posting entries like this is my way of remembering, reminding myself, and commemorating.