Christine Marshall

Dearest Christine,

How to start this...I'm not sure how one goes about a thing like this, but I feel the need to do something to mark your passing. I saw you on Friday. Of course, neither of us realised that at the time, because I was in an airport shuttle bus and your face was obscured by your hair when we drove past your accident. I knew that 'the driver of the car' hadn't made it, because your neck was at an angle that didn't bode well for survival.

I feel the need to tell you that I'm listening to James Blunt at the moment. I know you don't like him, but the last time we saw each other, you conceded that it was okay to listen to James Blunt if the situation was appropriate. He sings a lot about friends dying so I think it's appropriate right now.

I could go on at length about your academic achievements, of which there were many - how you were in the top five students in your German class and won the trip to Germany, how you were teaching baby Rhodents at the tender age of twenty-three - but I won't. This letter is, in a way, my observation of Shiva for you, and the point of Shiva is to remember the good about a person, the fun times had with them, and the impact that the departed had on those of us left behind. Thus, going on and on about impersonal things is missing the point.

You were one of the few people in New House that I truly loved. You were the friendliest of the seniors in the house (to me, at least).

I owe my credit in university German to you, because if you hadn't helped me with my grammar and German culture the night before that June exam, I would've failed on my arse. Actually, ditto for the November exam. So I owe you one of the highest marks I've ever scored in a university exam.

I loved how caring you were. There was a day (well, there were many in first year, prior to my diagnosis and subsequent prescription for happy pills) when I was particularly upset - the kind where my sobbing was disturbing my neighbors' studying - and you made me a card and brought me a chocolate to cheer me up. You have no idea how much that meant to me.

I loved that you were so accepting of me. I'm aware that I'm...let's go with quirky. Anyway, all the poppie seniors were pretty dismissive of me - an emo little first year with very few social skills, with controversial opinions about obscure things and a passion for random acts of silliness - but you weren't. You and Nats and Jeanie took me under your respective wings and were kind older sisters to me in a time in my life when I really needed a bit of shepherding. It really made a difference in my life.

I'm so sad (seriously, isn't there a better word than "sad"? It just doesn't sum up the well of dark grey that's filling my tummy, but I suppose it's as close as I'll get without sounding melodramatic and emo) that your life was cut short. You had so much potential. You were on the brink of the rest of your life - just finishing off your masters and about to leave the safe haven of Grahamstown and strike out into the Big Bad Outside World. Humanity still had so much to gain from your life; you weren't done giving all of your awesomeness to it. At least, I don't think you were; God obviously had a different opinion on the matter. I'm not sure why He decided to take you away, and to be honest I'm angry with Him for doing it (but I'm sure God understands me pouting about this and won't hold my indignation against me). Perhaps the eight organs that you donated will bring fullness of life to the recipients, but I still want my friend back.

Despite my anger at God, I've asked Him to look after your parents and brother. I asked Him to make sure they were surrounded by love and support while they deal with their grief over your death, since I can't do anything more useful to help them. Given that I never met your family and they're miles away, I can't give them my condolences in person, but if they read this I hope they know how heartfelt my prayers for them are.

I'll miss you, my friend. Your death is a tragic loss to this world.

Much love,

Brij xoxo