I read your words every day. A blog full of honesty and heartbreak, written with the craft of a true author. It’s been so long since I’ve heard your actual voice. I am a bad friend. A bad friend who can’t make a phone call even when she reads about the crumbling of a life she holds so dear. First, the challenges of life in another country, a child that needed more than most could provide, a marriage disintegrating. Moving on to deportation, divorce, health issues, poverty, and another lost job. I cry for you and still I won’t call. I won’t call because your despair is peppered with shimmering beauty. Your poetry curls around my mind and descriptions of hope and raw love eek out of the sad stories and tell myself, “See, she’s OK.”
I don’t call because your sadness could be my own but I’m not brave enough to live it. You said “no more” and took a chance to be truth. You probably didn’t know it would feel like dying. Maybe you did. I read your words and crawl back into my safety of togetherness, knowing I wouldn’t survive the challenges, I would be dying.
You gave me a bracelet made of blown glass. It was an inch wide, patterned in swirly tones of red and pink. Gorgeous, but not fitting around my wrist quite right. I took it to the artist who made them and she had me try on different ones. She told me “You’ll know when you find yours, it will feel like it was made for you.” I reached for the widest bracelet made of horizontal stripes of blue and green. I slid it on and the smooth glass ran around my arm flush to the skin, following every curve like it was made from a mold of my wrist. I kept it on and bought one for you. DId it fit? I can’t remember if it was the one made for you, or if you had to take it back. I don’t call, but I wear the bracelet as a prayer for you. A prayer about giving up something to find what was made for you. What is waiting for you.
I don’t call because I miss you so much. I don’t have a friend to drink whisky with while our children sleep upstairs or a friend to cut my hair, or a friend to explain what to do if I cross a mountain lion, or a friend who can write words that move me so much I gasp. Most importantly, I don’t have a friend who’s honesty makes me nauseous with the truth of who I am. You call the shit while keeping me uplifted. Thank you. I don’t call because right now I’m trying to survive without the whole truth.
I’m not calling, but I’m using this forgotten blog as a medium to communicate. I read your failures and your beauty and I’m inspired to share mine. You are Grace. You are Love. You are Truth.