To a Friend Sleeping on a Summer Hill

As I was scrolling through my phone, a Facebook notification popped up.
“Today is XX’s birthday.”
It was the name of a classmate who had passed away.

I learned of his passing early one morning eight years ago.
A message arrived in our class group chat saying, “Sad news.”

With sleepy eyes, I first thought it was the passing of our former homeroom teacher. He was elderly even back then, so I thought it wouldn't be strange if he had passed away, and opened the message with that in mind.

Contrary to my expectations, it was his name that was there.
It said he had been battling cancer and had passed away.

He was the most brilliant person I had ever met.

He was good at sports and academics, and above all, he was a person of great character.
People were naturally drawn to him, and I had always assumed that this was the kind of person who would become a leader in any organization.

I don't really remember why someone as brilliant as him and an ordinary person like me became friends. But somehow, we ended up becoming close.
He had stayed over at my parents' house, and I had stayed at his. I still remember the time we drank too much, got completely wasted, and walked through the night streets together.

After we started working, we stopped seeing each other and lost touch. A few months before I got the news, I suddenly thought of him and sent him a message.

“How are you doing?”

All that came back was a thumbs-up emoji.
Did he want to say “I'm doing well,” or “I'm okay”?
Or was it a greeting that packed in something he couldn't put into words?
Even now, I don't know what that meant.
At that time, he was already battling his illness. Even though I sent it without knowing, looking back now, what an insensitive message that was.

At the funeral, as if to reflect his good character, a huge number of people were in attendance.
I didn't cry. It didn't feel real. Or perhaps, I just didn't want to accept the truth.
Afraid to see the reality that he was gone, I left the venue in a hurry, like the heartless person I was, without ever looking at his face in the casket.

Since then, I started having dreams about him from time to time.

In my dreams, he is alive. Just as he was that day, in good health.
I am shaking his shoulders and crying.

“You recovered from your illness! You were alive!”

He is smiling at me.
I always wake up at that point.

I think I was having that dream at least once or twice a month.

I thought that perhaps this was because I hadn't been able to say a proper goodbye.

I asked a mutual friend where his grave was and decided to go visit.

It was a hot summer day.

A large cemetery on a small hill.
From there, you could see the whole city.

The blue of the pleasantly clear sky and the deep green of the mountains spread out beautifully, and taking a deep breath felt wonderful. Beyond the city, I could see a glimpse of the sea, and above it floated a large cumulonimbus cloud.

I had only heard a vague location, so I wandered around for a while before finally finding his grave.

Once I offered the flowers I had brought, I felt a bit restless.
Still, I squeezed out the words I had never been able to say.
“Sorry, it took me a while to come.”
“I'm sorry I didn't see you at the funeral.”
I still don't know what I should have said.

“Well, you know...”

“Rest in peace.”

After that, I stopped having dreams about him.

On social media, he still celebrates his birthday once a year.

The notification comes, and once again, I think of him.

And I think about that cemetery on the small hill.
I'm sure a pleasant breeze is blowing there today, and under the clear, sunny sky, the lush green leaves are rustling softly.
The scent of summer grass brushes my nose. The cicadas are singing.
He sleeps on at thirty, and only I continue to grow older.

In the end, I still hadn't said it properly.

Goodbye.

My dear friend.

See you again sometime.