You would have been 50 years old on 27 May. You didn’t reach 35 though, let alone the grand ‘old’ age of 50. The love of your life killed you. Somehow you found comfort in it. You sought solace in it although it gave you a multitude of problems. Her name was heroin and since the 18 years that you have been gone, it has killed a massive amount of juveniles. Will I ever forget your face, I wonder? How can I forget that Indian-style jet black hair, those hypnotising hazel eyes and that winning smile? No wonder so many women found you attractive, I would probably have been one of them if I hadn’t been your cousin.

Do you remember the good times we had when we were young, we fought like cat and dog when we met yet at the same time we couldn’t bear it if we didn’t meet up. Do you remember those glorious winter days when we would share hours of playing hide and seek in Xemxija? And what about the times you used to call me ‘fatso’ and I used to bite my hand in rebellious rage making it clear to you what I would do to you when I laid my hands on you?

Then unfortunately we grew up. I say unfortunately because the innocence of youth came to an end. We both took different directions in life, but though sometimes you looked to me as if you were as mad as a hatter, I never thought you would turn to drugs, But you did; big time. There was nothing on earth your mum and dad could do for you to stop you using drugs which eventually ended up landing you in prison.

What comes to mind so explicitly is the way your father followed you to England to save you from entering prison there. How hard he tried to reason with the authorities that you were only a victim of a deadly substance. At least he succeeded but back in Malta you were back to your old ways. Your speech was always slurred, your eyes half-closed and you walked as if you were about to drop to the floor any minute. Not even your beautiful young wife and two adorable children could help you mend your ways. You were so deep in the drug pit.

One cold January day they found you in your car sitting across the steering wheel, having fallen sideways. It was obvious somebody had killed you with a drug overdose. Although thoroughly disconsolate, your father was not surprised. He always had stated that long-term drug addicts always came to a sorry end. Many remember Steven as the drug user, others as that guy who was always half asleep. But I shall always remember my cousin as that little boy with the cheeky smile who offered to share his half a bar of chocolate with me because he knew I was starving and who was only 32 when he died.

■ Valerie Borg

Valletta