I Lost My Friend

She's not dead.

Thank goodness.

She's not in another country.

Thank goodness.

She's not even on the other side of this country.

Thank goodness.

But she's not on the other side of this tiny hill I live on anymore.  And I loved that.  I really loved that.  She was the first friend I had like that in so very many years.  We talked about everything.  We laughed over silly stuff.  She is nothing like me, but she is oh so much like me.

And it hurts.

I do not deal well with pain.  I bury it.  I dig it up.  I attack it with an axe.  I bury it again.  I crawl into the earth to lie with it.  I scream at it.  I turn my back on it.  Ignore it.

And then I write about it.  And it washes clean.

She's young.  A young mother working hard to raise a strong, independent, happy girl.  She was in a violent relationship that would have taken from her daughter, her two year old, everything she had envisioned for her, ripped her future away from her before it had a chance to sprout.

And I had no idea.  I laughed at her jokes, I talked with her baby, I watched our girls race toward each other each time they met again.  And I had no idea.

Until I got the call.  She was fleeing in the moment of a violent episode, racing for her life, packing her bags, arranging flights, meeting the cops at the door.  And I had no idea.

I was at work, ribbing one of my students for making the same mistake for the hundredth time.  I was looking forward to leftover pasta on my lunch break.  I was thinking about the glass of wine I would have that night at home.  But that night at home I had refugees, hiding from rage, hiding from discovery, hiding from the hand that might stop their flight.

And she was so weary the next day, as the morning sun rose and the air came in through the windows; she was just weary.  She was sad about the death of something that could have been.  She was sad for her daughter losing a father.  She was sad to leave her home.

But she was also looking forward.  Eyes up, shoulders back, firm set mouth.  She was not looking back, not looking behind her.

And how selfish of me, that in quiet moments that morning before she left I felt sad for myself, sad for my daughter, sad for our loss of such beautiful close friendships.

Ten years her senior I can say I am proud.  Proud she could be so strong in such an impossible situation.  Proud she could walk away with her baby in her arms not knowing what the future held but knowing that it had to be better than the past, than the present.  I am proud she is my friend.  And so many months later I can say I am proud of how far she's come in such a short time.  A new job.  A new place she can turn into a home.  Her little village around her.  I am proud to call her friend.

But yes, I am still sad for myself.

Washed clean now.  But still sad.