Eight.

Eight little messages represent all that remains of his voice.

I came across them when I was looking through my gmail for some old school contacts.

The memory of him is softening at the edges, melding with other memories. No one wants to talk about him, so it gets harder to keep the picture of him clear. I have a handful of photographs, a sweatshirt, the pillow we chose for the bar exam, and 8 emails.

Well, and the notes he took for me in Bar Prep class, which probably makes me the only lawyer who still has all her Bar Prep materials sitting on her bookshelf.

Damn.

Death. The gift that keeps on sucking.