Please note: this piece contains descriptions of loss that some readers may find upsetting.
The seed of our friendship was planted in a schoolyard, with you teaching me how to play cat’s cradle and it tentatively grew as we nurtured it through childhood play. Our seedling of friendship had storms to weather when you suddenly moved away.
We reconnected a couple of years later in another schoolyard, and that seedling began to grow and mature. There were sleepovers and gossiping, trying out make up and becoming interested in fashion and our friendship blossomed.
Our friendship was tested yet again as we went to separate high schools. It was a big transition, and I didn’t have my friend by my side, I struggled to adapt. Girls who I thought were friends were not so friendly. Doubts crept in about myself and I let bullies get to me. The flower of friendship seemed to wither as I became uncertain and withdrawn.
Through my darkest time, you were kind and supported me. You gave me courage to face my insecurities and embrace them. You never once were unkind or unfaltering in your compassion. You were the light for our flower.
Your childhood wasn’t easy, and you would often come over, my mum giving you your tea. Your grandparents had booked a cruise one Christmas, and your mum was away, we were only sixteen and I was worried about you. You came and stayed with us for a few days.
If you were the light then I was the soil, feeding you with tv shows to watch and books to read. I turned you into a nerd like me, when I said this to you, you laughed like it was no big deal. Neither of us were in the ‘popular’ or ‘cool’ social circles, but that didn’t matter, because our souls spoke to each other. We were there for each other in the challenging teenage times, and we were witnesses to each other’s triumphs and challenges, always cheering each other on. We gave each other the space to grow and become the people we are, our flower blooming along the way.
We went to Mexico together when we were seventeen. Our days were spent by the pool or at the beach. You offered to stay with me when my phobia of water meant I couldn’t swim with dolphins. I didn’t want you to miss out and told you I would be fine, and it brought me joy to watch you have that experience. We climbed the pyramid Chichen Itza, and we marvelled at the world, our chat turning philosophical.
And then we had an argument. I can’t remember what it was about now. Probably nothing. But it was like a disease, eating away at the plant we had grown. We went home and we both got so busy with studying for our final year so we could go to university, far away from home and far away from each other. The disease grew between us as we didn’t nurture our flower, and it sat forgotten and broken.
Our lives began to uproot from home and new roots grew in our chosen cities. Our flower was abandoned to the past, a relic to our younger selves. We saw each other one Christmas and we had a catch up and it was familiar and warm. But we had grown up and moved on as we all must do. Time passed and our lives never intersected again. We always remembered each other on our birthdays, leaving a message on social media.
Then one day I got a phone call from an old school friend. He asked if I had seen the news. I hadn’t. You had passed away. You were just about to start treatment for Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma; you died in hospital. I was stunned. I couldn’t process it. We were twenty-three years old. I had started a new job that week and I couldn’t afford the train ticket home for the funeral. My mum went, and she told me all about it. I sat in stony silence. I had let you down. I wasn’t there when you needed me, I couldn’t find a way to say goodbye to you properly.
My grief buried any lingering remnants of our flower. I was overwhelmed with emotions, and I reflected a lot on your life and our friendship. You were independent and moved through life with a confidence I envied. You were eager to travel and see the world and we had once planned to do that together. You always had a sense that life was too short and should be experienced. I regret our argument and the withering effect it had on our relationship. I wish I could take it back, but we were both stubborn and both thought we were right. I’m still stubborn, but I have learned to bend more, especially for those that I love. You taught me that.
Not long after your passing, I was seriously ill. I was in hospital, and I thought I was going to die. My recovery was slow, and my body and mind felt weak. Then I dreamed of you. We were on that beach in Mexico, sitting on the sun loungers at night as we had done on holiday. The sky was so clear, and we could see every star shining in the sky. The sound of the waves were calming and I could smell the salt in the air. You were looking at me, your red hair hanging perfectly and your favourite lipstick on, just like I remember you.
“You’re going to be ok,” you told me. “You’ll get over this and you will be fine.”
I woke up, tears in my eyes. I felt the peace you had, and I believed you. Even in death you were still there for me, an unwavering support.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered hoping that you could hear me “I miss you.”
In the mound of grief, a small seedling was pushing through and it’s up to me now to nurture it.
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