Regardless of the weather, once the first week of February has passed I can sense spring hiding somewhere preparing her entrance. After that first week, there’s just more light. I feel relieved. Only a few more days.
The darkest part of my life was the suicide of a dear friend in early February over two decades ago. I have been thinking about her a lot lately. She was 21.
After so many years now, sometimes February passes without much deep contemplation. This year is different though. Lately, I have been catching glimpses of her in a good book, in the particular walk of a stranger, in a Rick Springfield song and even in a jar of raspberry jam. I am remembering things about her I forgot for a while: the musicians she loved, her budgie, her pretty hands, the little scars on her arms where the childhood-her scratched the mosquito bites her mother warned her not to scratch.
She was the sister I never had. She saw right through me. She taught me to be myself. I regret I didn’t learn the lesson until it was too late though. So many regrets.
I just wish I could see her again. She didn’t get all the wonderful things I did from life; she just didn’t get enough time. I want her to have what I have, all the things I have been blessed with. I wish my wife had known her; they would be great friends. And with these words right now in some small way, I’m trying to make you know her too.
But you didn't. Yet I suspect you’ve known someone whose life ended too soon. Who lives in your memory? And just what is the lesson in any life cut short?
I wonder that too.
Writing about her feels right though. It’s a part of myself I haven’t opened for a long time. I guess she’s still opening me up.
“There are places in the heart that do not yet exist; suffering has to enter in for them to come to be.” -Leon Bloy