My childhood best friend died yesterday.
Her husband, a man that I’ve never met, though we’ve been friends on social media, was gracious and kind enough to let me, someone that hasn’t been truly in her life for many years, know on the same day that it happened.
It’s strange. You know that I have an unusual relationship with Death. She and I love each other, we respect the roles that each other plays in the universal spirit, and still, there remains, beneath the surface of this mutual admiration, a deep rooted loathing of epic proportion.
I am bothered by her presence in my life, both my personal and my professional lives are interrupted by her appearance and she is bothered by my incessant talking on their trip, when they could be contemplating their lives, they are instead getting messages, whispers of mourners and grief that floats heavy on her boat, and she is a captain who does not appreciate heavy floats on her boat.
I somehow feel like her death, caused by an ailment of the heart, was appropriate though, as if Death had given this woman who had suffered so many breaks, cracks, small dents to her heart, an appropriate end. Whereas some can bury their hearts and some can steel their hearts against the blows of life, some can burn up their hearts with self-loathing and some can simply…stop…caring. But…because the universe is good and humanity will always be worth the fight, there are those whose hearts come out at the end looking like a goddamned war hero who fought the odds and came out….well….not much longer for this life. They are the hopeful and the ones who always blow the dandelions and wish on that first star because they know that tomorrow…something wonderful.
And sometimes they just don’t make it to that something wonderful, sometimes they just know that they made it possible….and that’s all that they needed before they let go. Sometimes they just made sure that the something wonderful was left behind for the ones they loved.