But you didn’t come. Then I realized you wouldn’t come, because you will never come again.
Yes, I attended a concert for you. I imagine that you already know that because you watched from wherever you are. I think you would have approved. Many of your friends were there. They sang for you. We remembered you. We cried. A lot. And we laughed when things went wrong and had to be repeated. You know, Christoffer assembled this, kind of, and I am not sure if I can blame him, but you know what? They chose to start with TRO. I tell you, the piano started, the girl hadn’t even started to sing yet and I felt tears welling up. Then she sang the first word, TRO, and most of us were done. The gates were wide open, we cried, freaking three minutes after the concert started.
And as the evening went on, I realized that you wouldn’t come out at some point, waving, your hands in the air, showing a victory sign or a thumb up, no laugh on your face, because there was no face. You wouldn’t be there to grab a microphone and show everyone that you can sing your songs very well alone. You wouldn’t be there to come on stage and receive a freaking lifetime award for your craft, your music, your work, your LIFE. And that was what hit me the most, what hurt the most. We ran out of miracles, there won’t be another miracle anymore. No sudden healing, no surprising appearance on a small stage in Amsterdam. You just left and this evening was our chance to say goodbye. And here I am, back into grieving, because I have no idea what farewell, what goodbye means. Will I forget you? Will you be there with me until the very end? Did I wave enough to make sure it IS a good-bye? Can I just refuse to let you go? Can I?
You would have loved many of the acts on that January night in Göteborg, few of them maybe not. Personally, I must say that it showed me that you sang your songs best, of course. They all did a great job and you could tell that everyone there gave their whole heart and the best they could. That made it all so special. Everyone in this theater came with love for you and your music. And that turned it into a magic evening. I am so grateful I could be there, grateful to be a part of this, still. Grateful that I could talk to the band and meet people I have met as many times as I went to concerts, but now probably will never see again. 28 years of my life passed me by in a haze. And I am not even 40 yet.
While you always saw yourself on a table in the sun with a bunch of roses and described it as your ultimate place and moment of peace, I want to believe you are somewhere, watching over us, with a smile on your face and a beer in your hand. Always a beer in your hand. And always a sweet tune on the tip of your tongue.
No, I can’t say good-bye just yet. Here I am, planning another tattoo, another picture on the wall, another blog entry, another letter to you. I am not ready yet.