A mirror and a window

I received an email from a good friend. It makes me cry each time I read it (which has not been often, for exactly that reason). I have been prevaricating about how best to respond.

On the way home today, I realised this was indeed the best way to respond.

Openly. Opaque, yes, for the general reader. But an open letter, nevertheless, which is important in itself.

Good friendships come rarely in life. Good friendships across generations perhaps even rarer (maybe for want of opportunity rather than any other inherent reason). Friendships of a certain deep hue need to be treasured, nurtured, sustained.

I have always prided myself on being a protector of such friendships. They have been precious to me in ways that fill a hole in my soul, excavated in the lonely rooms and halls and open spaces of institutional living.

I wonder sometimes what kind of end my aged body will come to, if indeed I make it long enough to age well. I linger on the thought that perhaps I will come (almost) full circle back to one of the more instrumental times in my life, institutional living.

I hope that I will die at home, in my bed, with loved ones nearby. That would be a lucky death indeed.

Death and life are intimately woven into each other, much as we choose not to acknowledge this.

I have become quite attuned to the possibility of imminent death. Passing road trains. A sliding turn on a freshly gravelled road. Another funeral. The sight of a small child going face first into the water, so close but too far.

It feels very near. I idly wonder on long journeys if perhaps I'll get cancer. I morbidly consider if a recent bruise heralds the onset of leukaemia. Or if one of my many moles will turn on me while I blithely smooth sunscreen on my face daily.

Having had very little experience of death, I feel its presence near. When will my luck run out? And when it does, will it be sudden and I will have had no time to say.

That I forgive you. That I choose not to forget either. That I hold certain moments precious in the memory of my life.

I feel the same way and I'm sorry too. We'll be friends again and take our imperfect perfect selves along for the ride.