What Remains
On friendship, loss, and the subtle beauty of ordinary moments
The tender coexistence of sorrow and beauty,
memories with fading color,
silently turning monochrome.
And yet—
I believe
that finality
is not final.
My dear friend passed away. I received a short text last Saturday from her sister saying “She passed away peacefully this morning surrounded by her family”.
Cancer was her battle. A battle she ultimately lost, but fought for eight long years. The last year in particular was so very hard, and - even as a friend living a few states away - it was nearly unbearable to witness. The suffering stretched on for so long that, in the end, everyone quietly prayed for her final relief. There is a profound unfairness in a life ending that way.
And yet, when that moment comes - no matter how much anticipatory grief you have already carried - you are never prepared for the finality of it. The final breath.
Then the memories come flooding in, and all you want to do is go back in time and relive them. What a blessing memories are. What a treasure. What a gift. We can carry them with us and return to them as often as we want.
I’ve realized that the good memories surface right away, as if telling me, “Yes, she is gone, but here we go… remember?” Then the grief becomes a confusing mix of tears and laughter as you think of moments passed where life was still filled with hope and possibility for both of us, filled with conversations, laughter, and simple presence.
It think it was the simple “being” what I loved most about our friendship.
You let me be. You never offered unsolicited advice, never overstepped boundaries, never put any expectations on me. Just gentle encouragement and the right amount of support when I needed it. Your friendship was a rock for me during those years when we were neighbors. I don’t think you ever knew that, but it’s true.
The way you went about your life, minding your own business, never speaking badly of others, staying out of the small dramas around us - you were simply yourself, steady and grounded.
I was always in such awe of you. Your strength, your honesty, your resilience. Your positive outlook on life, your loyalty to everyone you loved, your commitment to helping anyone in need. Your delicious homemade bread. Your free-range parenting style that taught me so much about the kind of mother I wanted to be. The way you never made a big deal about your beautiful photography or your writing.
Your door was always open, often literally. How many times did I wander downstairs with my toddler in arms just to spend time together? I’ve lost count. How often did we simply combine our dinners as families, because eating together is better than eating alone?
There was such an ease to it all.
Seeing you suffer was so hard. Why does it always seem to happen to the good ones? Why weren’t you given the chance to grow old with your husband, the way you always dreamed?
Questions without answers. Life is like that.
I will never fully understand.
But here is what remains. I will always be grateful our paths crossed. I will always be grateful for all the moments we experienced together. They were mostly ordinary, but so beautiful. They were the kind of moments that become the ones you treasure most. Like it says in your obituary, you “gifted us with a deeper understanding of the tender coexistence of beauty and sorrow.”
Rest well, my dear and beautiful friend. I am glad you are at peace now.
The words you wrote to her made my throat close up and my soul ache.
This is beautiful.