In some ways the opposite of love is not hate. It is grief. When love is lost it is grief that fills the cavernous void. It is grief that compresses and stretches your heart and lungs, all at once. The thing that makes your eyes brim with tears and the reason you struggle to catch your breath even while lying still. Yet, you can love and grieve simultaneously.
Grief came upon me so suddenly this week. I took a phone call. A call that transported me back over ten years previously when I found out a school friend, had been killed in a freak accident. Except this wasn’t a high school friend who I hadn’t seen since she had moved towns and schools. This was a beautiful woman who I was meant to be seeing that very evening. Who I had been mountain biking with 24hrs before. One of my closest companions in a town I had only lived in a year. My connector. My mentor. My friend. Gone. Forever.
When you fall in love everything just sparkles a little brighter in the world. The mundane becomes interesting. The boring can become beautiful. Just like the opposite of love, my world dimmed knowing there was one less lovely soul breathing upon its surface. The sparkle replaced by a haze. A numbness. The world seemed dull without her light. Nothing made sense anymore.
Everyone grieves differently, but for me the pain is always worst at night. In the silence. In the darkness. It swallows me whole. As I write this, it is far past my bed time, but in continue to replay over and over the last time I saw her because if I can remember it so clearly, the sound of her voice, her laugh, the conversations we shared, the way I watched her on the trail ahead. All of that somehow means she is still here with us? How can such real life be only memory?
I think Emily was the sort of person that made everyone feel like her best friend. Not by being a crazy extrovert but just by staying true to the basics of friendship. She made an effort. She showed up. She stayed in touch. She cared. I know she held so much space in so many lives. It is hard to imagine that void ever closing even as we gather close and try to hold each other through the pain.
Within my grief I am often overwhelmed by the immense and the trivial. Trivially, I realised, somewhere through the haze, I was meant to be hosting a girls-night in a few days. Emily was the first ones to agree to come along. Suddenly, my confidence to host such a thing dissolved. Without Emily there to connect us all, would it just be a room of strangers? Ironically, the person I wanted to talk about this moment of anxiety with was her. I wanted to make a joke about being socially inept and have her laugh at my joke and chide me for being ridiculous in equal measures. She would fully understand, both the humour and seriousness of my jibe.
This morning, after a night that seemed too short and never ending, the only feeling I could relate to was heartbreak. It seemed strange but so obvious at the same time. Of course, I loved her. We all did. I cherish, but rarely verbally acknowledge, how much I love my friends.
The last time I saw Emily I drove away feeling fulfilled and excited for all the adventures yet to come. While new friendships can, at times, be awkward and forced I felt we had stepped beyond that point. I felt so connected. I felt so lucky she would unprompted tell me of her weekend victories at the crag as she was always so humble and afraid to brag. I felt so honoured to be her friend. I felt love. I just wish I had told her in real time. But there is always another day, another plan, another chance.
Until there is not.
Until all you can do is grieve.
Until all you can do is love.
To all my friends past and present.
To Emily.
I love you.