an honest elegy
I first met you when we were in kindergarten. You had just moved here from Massachusetts, and I was very impressed that you could spell Massachusetts when most of us could barely spell our own names. You had thick, brown hair in a braid down your back, clear blue eyes, and freckles. You loved Disney movies. You and I rode the same bus, but you lived in the middle of the woods, in a house so far off the road that I didnât know what it looked like until years later, when I came to your house for a cast party for our middle school play.
I really wanted to come to your house, though. I wanted to come when we were in first grade, when pictures in our photo album remind me of the times we learned about penguins and wrote our own books for the Authorâs Tea.Â
I wanted to come over in third grade, when we were finally old enough to start clumsily sawing away at our violins.Â
I wanted to come over in fourth grade. Oh hell, I wanted to come over in fourth grade. You couldnât pay me a million dollars to relive that year. I had no friends in our class and dealt with ruthless bullying by some of the mean girls. I was an easy target. My body was preparing for Early Puberty; I was overweight, bucktoothed, and four-eyed. Most of my clothes came from the thrift store or K-Mart. I was also incredibly soft. I grew up without siblings taunting me and spent most of my free time writing poems about my dog. I get it. If I had to pick someone to tease, Iâd pick me too.
But I lived in terror that year, as you and your friends stole and hid my belongings, one by one, starting with my mechanical pencils, then my pencil case, then my lunchbox, shrugging nonchalantly whenever the teacher questioned you. The worst part was when your friend threw the open carton of chocolate milk at me at lunch. She claimed she was aiming for the trashcan. I was excited to wear a new shirt that day, and I had to spend the whole rest of the day in a shirt covered in brown stains. The teacher didnât believe that you all were taunting me until then. I still remember when you all wrote me that note saying you were sorry (probably using one of my stolen pencils!) and signed your names at the bottom. I didnât believe you were really sorry, but I forgave you out of necessity, because our school was small enough.
Iâll never forget the last time I saw you before you got sick. It was at one of our friendsâ birthday sleepovers, and you were late. You had just cut your waist-length hair, and it looked so long and thick. I couldnât believe that you were sick when I heard the news. You had always had such vitality about you.Â
But you rallied and came back to school. You were on the way to healthy, and in sixth grade, we became cautiously friendly. We had three classes together that year. We shared stories about our crushes and made cootie catchers and played that Zap game where you write someoneâs name and a time on someoneâs hand, and if they look at the name before the time they have to ask that person out. I was so excited to keep in touch over the summer; I thought I might finally get to come over and hang out. We talked on the phone a few times but never got to hang out. I thought it had to do with vacations and schedules, but I was wrong. I was devastated when we came back to school for seventh grade, and your binder was plastered with pictures of you and your friends at your birthday party, to which I hadnât been invited. I guess we werenât friends after all.
I kept trying, and maybe I succeeded a little. That year you got glasses that looked almost like mine, and some teachers couldnât tell us apart. You were the mediator when your other friend and I crushed on the same boy. You made me feel valued for once when you decorated my locker on my birthday. You called me to tell me about a fateful school dance, and I loved sharing in your excitement when you got your first boyfriend, even if I was a little jealous. We used to write stories and pass notes in class together. And threw it all, I only saw you cry once, when you came back from a treatment and were in so much pain. I remember helping to decorate your locker when you finished treatment, feeling so excited that you could go back to normal life again.
Eighth grade rolled around, and you worked on the stage crew for the musical in which I performed. I finally made it over to your house for the cast party. It thunderstormed that night, I remember, and after an hour in the pool we huddled in your basement, playing truth or dare. You had a giant chalkboard that I imagined must have been a great resource for playing school growing up. I remember being sad when my parents came to pick me up.Â
In high school, we had classes together, worked on another musical, and edited the newspaper together. You were always so close, and yet so far. Sometimes, we were friendly, but I was never a top tier friend, never birthday party, hang-outside-of-school status. I have good memories, though, of eating lunch in the newspaper classroom, taking goofy photos, griping about teachers, and figuring out ways to get on blocked sites like YouTube. For once, in that class, I felt like I was in on an inside joke with you.
After high school, we lost touch, but I kept up with your journey. I heard when you got sick again, and again, and again, and again, the last time. And even though you hurt me, even though you caused me a lot of pain growing up, I am still awed by your many admirable qualities. I could always count on you to let me copy your notes or to edit a quick turn story for the paper in a flash. You were always calm under pressure. You had a deep dedication to your family and friends, and they were devoted in return. You did so much for other survivors and others struggling with the disease. You lived life to the fullest, never saying no to an opportunity, always appreciating music, nature, and good food. You were incredibly graceful and humble through it all, and you kept fighting long past when I would have given up. You lived so much in those 23 years, and I know you brought joy and peace to so many around you.
So here this is--my complicated goodbye. You were not always a friend, but you were always important to me. Iâll always remember your fighting spirit.
