time will take care of you
uh… maybe not
time will take care of you…
those were the words of a colleague when i mentioned i’d lost my best friend.
as if time were some magic pill that could dissolve pain. as if one day i’d simply forget i lost a friend, or had one at all. as if he didn’t matter.
“speak up,” they say, as though it ipso facto solves everything. but no one ever taught us to listen — really listen. to sit with someone’s silence. to say, simply, “that’s really hard. i’m sorry.”
i’ve always kept to myself. but this time, i reached out because the grief was too much, and was reminded why i don’t.
when it’s not your loss, the sorrow is just noise.
i get that now. especially when, a day after hearing about my friend’s death, a fellow student pitched their food cart to me, knowing how close we were.
i understand. life is hard. bills don’t wait. but would holding off a little have cost so much? at least until it didn’t feel so transactional, so hollow?
now, the urge to open up is gone. i swipe away from google photos when anyone walks by, hiding pictures of us, even from family.
i talk to him out loud when i’m alone. i say his name.
it’s the only way i know to keep him close, especially when everyone else acts like grief has an expiration date. they expect it to be tidy: a week, two, maybe a month. but i remember our last meeting like it was yesterday: how we said farewell with the usual “chop knuckle,” and him saying, “let me know when you get home.”
so now, i know to sit longer when someone mentions they’re grieving. to listen. to ask. to care. because i know what it feels like when someone finally does.
thanks to an unexpected companion in grief, someone important to him i hadn’t known before, i learned how much that matters.
i hope the world learns too.
