Friendship Bracelet

It is ten years ago and we are soaking up the sun. You are a few years older than me, but still we are two young women with our whole lives in front of us. Our blonde hair and matching smiles make us look like siblings, though it was fate that made a soul sisters instead of blood relatives. I look up to you the way any younger sibling would, because you've already brought me back to the light. We sit in the sand, hearing the waves crash just off the wooden pier, and duck to avoid the seagulls who pay us visits sporadically. There is something marvelous about the Pacific that just pulls me in, and I'm grateful to share it with you at last. The California coastline, covered in a golden glow and dotted with palm trees, is something magical to behold. I almost have to pinch myself to be sure it’s not a dream.

It is nine years ago and we are in a corner booth at a fancy Southern boutique restaurant. We are trying fried green tomatoes for the first time, soft and sweet and tangy and delightful. We are surrounded by colorful houses and cobblestones as we tell stories and reminisce about the restaurant we used to work in together. We are only in Charleston overnight but we decide to come back as soon as we can. We are adventuring again and it feels like these days will never end.

It is six years ago and we are atop the observatory wheel at Navy Pier in Chicago with your little boy, about to go for some savory deep dish pizza that lives up to its name. I've just beaten early-stage cancer and I'm in the middle of my road trip home to be closer to my family and to my chosen family- you. You are never one to shy away from a voyage, so you’ve flown here with Wyatt to welcome me halfway home. We stare out into Lake Michigan, in awe of its vastness and unsure of how it isn’t an ocean itself.

It is five years ago and I'm holding your hand in the doctor’s office while your sister squeezes the other one. Your oncologist has tears in his eyes as he tells us you've been diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer, with a life expectancy of 6 to 12 months. We cling to each other tearfully and promise we will get through this together, as we always have.

Throughout the next 2.5 years, time will move quickly and slowly all at once. I will believe
relentlessly that you will beat every statistic and come back to life the way Tinkerbell does
when she feels loved again. But it does not happen that way. You will slowly slip away, and I will spend many nights in the hospital with you before I write and read part of your eulogy on a sunny Thursday morning in October. I will buy a bracelet with a heart that says your name - Holly - and wear it every day. In moments of crisis I will whisper your name and find solace quickly. In moments of joy, I will feel you cheering me on. My life will forever be a tribute to the light you shared with me, and in some ways, I will come to realize that death has brought us closer than ever before.