Of dead and dying in On loves.

On a dead friendship (from an essay I’ve been working on about me and ex-BFF):

We’d been so lonely for so long that we decided we were going to be best friends before even meeting in person. She ended up being funny and pretty, but not in a way that hampered me. What I mean is that ex-BFF and I were different in obvious and non-competing ways. I’d painted my apartment bright pink and wore dresses and heels. Her apartment was a wash of muted tones, and she favored soft jeans and flats year-round. I was just discovering literature; she had an English degree. The child of Baptist parents, I was more traditional and idealistic. The accidental third daughter of an older couple, she was more independent. She was brunette, I was blonde. I had the thinner body, she had the prettier face.

We were eternally girlie. Girlie like dotting our “i”s with hearts. We both loved Britney Spears, adorableness, snuggling our pets, ruffles and cookies. We gave each other nicknames and combined them, calling our collective self Bexty. We hung suspended between childhood and adulthood, overlapping the two so much that it felt like nobody else could possibly understand us.

On a dying friendship:

My friend Ali texted me this morning to say the “women in career transition” event at 8 am Saturday she’d been planning to go to had a few spots open up if I was interested. I said sure.

Two hours later, a woman from this dog sitting site that I’m on (to be a dog sitter, which is the funnest thing in.the.world) messaged me to confirm that I’d be watching her dog this weekend. I’d forgotten all about it.

I sent Ali a text: “Ugh. I’m so sorry, but I forgot that someone had requested I dog sit this weekend up near (an hour away from the event). They just confirmed the request and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to go to the event. I apologize profusely, especially since you went out of your way to get me in. However, I want to get in lots of Ali time - I have a spray tan scheduled tomorrow night, but I’ll cancel it and we can go for a walk and I’ll order us dinner for your house. Does that work?”

Her response: “I’m not gonna lie - I’m kind of blown away by your priorities lately. I’ll cancel your registration though.”

My friend, Christalyn, who is my very best friend in San Francisco (she’s great!) was over at my house when I received the text, which I was grateful for, because it made me cry.

I sent Ali a text back: “I’m sorry to make you go through the trouble of registering me only to have to cancel. It sounds like this is about more than just the conference. If you want to talk about whatever else is bothering you, let me know.”

It’s twelve hours later and no response. I guess I’m not surprised, but I still feel bad.

On my dead grandma:

My grandmother is dying in hospice: antiseptic white room, floral arrangements, detached nurses administering painkillers. In the afternoon, when she is awake, I kneel at her bedside and hold her hand, with its freshly painted nails, in mine. Her face is open and uncertain, more worried about my future than her own, and perhaps it is just as well that she is too weak to speak. I would like to give her peace. I would like to promise her that I will soon have a man to marry and children to wear her costume jewelry, would like to assure her of my long-lasting happiness and housekeeping prowess, would like to give her a guarantee of my everlasting faith in God before she dies, but I’m different now and can promise her nothing like that. I give her a kiss and smooth her hair, and promise my mother will come tomorrow.