09 December 2015
B.
Hi.
I’m typing this on the balcony of a local coffee shop, sleep-deprived and stressed, but definitely not as much as you. You’re probably on the way to the hospital as I write, or walking down from the tarmac, or exiting the immigration gates — it doesn’t matter, what matters is that you’re going home.
Home to family, to arms of loved ones.
Seven years ago today, being the self-diagnosed too-old-for-these kids we were insisting ourselves to be, we left your sister’s kiddie birthday party. It was mermaid-themed, I remember, and kids arrived head-on fully-garbed in swimming attire. With a laugh at the fact that we were wearing baggy pants, oversized t-shirts, and Vans (a staple then), and that we looked utterly, utterly out of place, we went outside the venue and walked around the compound, eventually finding ourselves near the parking lot. We looked up, and saw that it was called “Parking In.” As a result of the grammatical absurdity of the name, or the fact that all five of us realised I was leaving the next year for college, or the fact that at that exact point, we had a photo taken of us 5 under that slab of concrete bearing the heading, we called ourselves that — Parking In.
And for the years thereafter we promised each other we’d try to meet up when the “anniversary” takes place. It never always happened, of course — busy schedules come in the way, exams take over, differences in locations, what have you. But we always remembered. Everyday on December 9, we’d tweet, or put up a Facebook status, or privately message each other, and say, “Happy anniversary, Parking In.” The band that never was, but the friendship that always has been (for more than 7 years, in fact).
I’m writing this down because I want you to know that I’m thinking of you and your family. That in the 15 years I’ve known you, I’ve not known anyone more strong, more brave, more passionate. Yesterday, you were laughing loudly at the jokes we were making in hushed whispers, because you’ve always been that kind of girl — hopeful, warm, courageous, full of love.
Today, you’re back to the desert, and I know it’s hard (although I cannot say I know how hard it is), and I know that telling you to keep strong is the most redundant thing ever (you already are), but here I am to tell you exactly that again — it’s hard, but keep strong.
Take heart, have faith, be hopeful, and know that whatever happens, you’ll always have a piece of home with us.
It will hurt. It will hurt. It will not creep on you during the lonely times, but it will push against you like harsh waves and strong winds anytime it desires — in the grocery lane, while taking an exam, while attending to a patient. It will hurt because it matters, and when it does hurt, remember what I told you: that all matter still exists. That energy just gets recycled.
That when you’re hit by the freight train of loss, crippling you and leaving you unable to breathe, do not forget to look up. I wrote in the notebook we gave you our history as stardust, didn’t i? That we’re stardust? That because of the principle of energy being neither created nor destroyed, we’re perpetually taking on different forms — one moment we’re stardust, the next, we’re this.
And then, when life passes, we become stardust again. Or something more unorganized.
I told you to keep looking up. I told you this because I want you to never forget — because all those who have left before us? They haven’t. At least, not really. They’ve just transformed into other things.
They’ve become stardust, or angels, or the wind that lovingly brushes our faces.
They’ve become the waters that tickle our feet, the songs that keep alive our senses.
They’re in the heat we radiate when we hug those we love, in the sounds we produce when we laugh.
They’re everywhere.
And one day, we’ll be united again.
I love you.
J.
Of perpetual finds 