One of my best friends died this February at the age of 26, leaving behind two young sons. Her death changed me nearly as much as having her in my life did, and I find that no matter how hard I try, I’m unable to write about her very much. It’s not because I don’t think of her because I do, daily if not longer, but I’m too afraid to write about her.
What if I get it wrong? What if I try to tell the most important story I can think of and it’s all wrong? I can’t bear to think of not doing it right for Steph, so I don’t do it at all.
But I want to tell you.
I want each and every one of you to know who she is, who she was, and what she meant to me. How she was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. And how there is now a gigantic hole in my heart now that she’s gone. I want you to know how things will never be the same now that she’s gone from the world.
And I will.
I got word this morning that her older brother died yesterday; died of a freak accident, so my stories today will have to wait for yet another day. He died, leaving behind a wife and two small kids, leaving behind parents who have buried two adult children in a little over six months.
He died, and although I’m not an uber-Christian, I like to imagine that he’s meeting Steph up there in Heaven. I like to imagine that all of the loved ones that I lose down here are hanging out together and waiting patiently for the rest of us to join them, one by one. That’s how I find comfort in her death: imagining a day when we can all be together again.
And sometimes, sometimes it makes me less angry that she’s not down here with all of us.