Holding my best friend’s hand at her mother’s funeral. Wordlessly standing by her side as she navigated the damaged path of grief. This is what I remember about that day.
I recognized her strength. It’s the same unflinching resolve she had when we first found out about the cancer. The same endurance she kept, holding out through those lonesome, dreary months of chemotherapy. You’d have thought she was unbreakable, unless you felt her hand shaking. It was the only fragile, wavering part of her. That only I was privy to. I always admired her drive and unyielding stability; she was the anchor while I was the sand resting beneath her, shifting but always there to whisper my counsel. We had the perfect friendship. She confided in me, and I relied on her support.
But not that day. That was the day she mourned the death of her only family. That was the day her rope snapped, and the boat had left her behind. I expected her to lean on me. Instead she transcended the odds and floated up above. My sixteen-year-old best friend drove a car into a tree that day. My anchor floated up to the light at the surface to find her boat, leaving her sand behind.