Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Mama, We're Meant for the Flies?

A friend of mine died last week. Not a good enough friend for people to offer me condolences or anything, but a friend nevertheless.

(A friend, who, when I was separated from Glenn earlier this year, went out of her way to meet with me and listen to me and be nothing but nice.)

She was only 38--
the same age as me--
and from what I understand, she went to sleep and just--

Nothing was wrong with her, which of course can't be true; something was wrong. Because healthy, normal 38-year-olds don't go to sleep and just--

(do they?)

At first, I was too shocked to even feel upset unless you count complete and utter shock as upset. Maybe what I mean is I wasn't sad. I'm not cold (really. I mean, really); I just couldn't feel sadness. Any capacity for it was shocked right out of me.

Until tonight.

Tonight I looked at her Facebook page, read my mother some of the posts her sister left on her page, and cried. I cried for her mother and sister, both of whom unexpectedly lost a loved one, and I cried over the loss of a friend, but more than anything, I cried because one fewer person, one fewer good person who was never anything but nice to me, is here. And not only is one fewer good person here, but that one fewer person had no idea--no idea--none--she was going anywhere.

She was living her life as though she weren't going to go to sleep and just--

She was loving her dog. Traveling to Canada next month. Planning to move to another state (California?) with her mom. Obsessing over Chris Isaak. Taking pictures. Talking about her love for the Bryant Brothers. Posting statuses lamenting having slept through the Golden Globes.

She was living.
She was--

And then she went to sleep and just--

is gone.

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