(no subject)
A childhood friend of mine mysteriously passed away barely a week before Christmas.
She lived a few houses up the street from ours. Our subdivision is a tight-knit community. Everyone basically knows everyone else. Some twenty years ago, it was just a plot of land that was developed into the residential area that it is now. Small families hoping to start their storybook lives together slowly trickled in. I guess that's the best explanation for why most of the kids here have friends their age. Just in our block, I swear there is at least one child who's about my age in every house. And so I grew up knowing all of the neighbors, at least in our part of the neighborhood. For several years, we would have gatherings every now and then, and they were literally held on the street. The folks would be drinking their beers and eating their barbecued food on the tables and the kids would be collecting leftover watusi on the street.
You couldn't do those things anymore now. You would either be run over by cars, or poisoned by the watusi, or otherwise shot by one of the neighborhood drunks. This is because some of the first families have moved away now, and have been replaced by people with questionable morals. You know, the ones who have kids but use their maiden names. Or those who are filthy rich but spend the entire day drinking (you'd really wonder if they weren't running some illegal operation somewhere).
But a few families have stayed. Mine and hers (my childhood friend) are two of those.
We were never really close. Remember that fate just sort of threw us all together. Proximity equals friendship. Plus, she's actually four years younger than I am and that kind of age gap is starkly insurmountable when one is in, say, high school, and the other's still wearing good morning towels to school everyday. I have a few memories, though, of us playing with Barbie dolls in their house. Her hair was always pulled up tight then, slightly to the side.
Last night, before the Christmas mass, we passed by her wake. I think I made a huge error when I greeted her mom, "Merry Christmas." She gave me a stiff smile, which I completely understand. How the hell can Christmas be merry considering the circumstances. Inwardly, I shrugged the embarrassment off and decided not to hand her the pastries that we brought. It was in a Christmasy-looking package and had a freaking Christmas card on it. So I put it on the snacks table instead. I noticed there was absolutely nothing in that room to indicate that it was the Yuletide season. Nothing except the pastries that we brought.
So I finally got up the courage to peek inside the coffin. The girl inside was nothing like the skinny girl with the 80's hairdo. It was a person about to graduate from college. A person who preferred to sit in front of her computer rather than play with dolls. A person whom I have not interacted with for at least ten years.
I started wishing that I had never looked inside the coffin at all. In my mind, she would have stayed young and skinny and bubbly forever. But now she'll also look lifeless and heavily made up.
This entry is not really about her. And it's not all about me. It's really about Christmas and its way of searing its meaning into one's consciousness when tragedy strikes.
I'm happy that my family is complete and the holidays are special at our home. That's something that I never take for granted.
One way or another, have a Happy Christmas, everyone.