In January 2020, my best friend since 1st grade died of an extremely rare and aggressive cancer. Today would have been her 33rd birthday. In her honor, I’d like to re-share a short tribute I wrote to her a year after her passing in January 2021—something probably only 100 or so of you read, as I was still pretty new to Substack then. I hope this inspires you to hold your loved ones close, to stare into their eyes and never miss the chance to get into some high jinx. One day, those memories will be your lifeline. Scroll to the end to see some good photos of us over the years.
We used to play this game at cheerleading camp where each squad stood in a circle with their heads down. When the staff blew a whistle to lift your head, you had to do something with the first person you locked eyes with. I don’t remember what that something was, but you and I always, somehow, locked eyes.
I say “somehow” loosely. It was common knowledge that where one of us went, so did the other, so naturally our gazes met like magnets. We’d burst out laughing because you always said my big eyes scared the shit out of you, like two brown saucers were the last thing one saw before one died.
Around 2% of the world’s population have green eyes. With numbers like that, it’s no wonder yours cut my memory like raw emeralds, Celtic and wild. Twenty-three years of friendship lends language to the eyes. We had full conversations across bars and parties in glances. I always knew when it was time to go.
Sometimes we’d drunkenly try to convince people we were the same height. I don’t know what inspired this bit; you had five inches on me and your supermodel height was the first thing people noticed about you. But we’d stand back to back snickering, committed to a joke only we found funny.
The other day, Lauren said she always loved your hands. You had a little cluster of freckles between your pointer finger and thumb that people constantly mistook for dirt, awkwardly wetting a napkin to try and rub it off. Your fingers were long, your nail beds perfect. You’d text Ariana and ask what shade of nude you should get at your next mani. “Don't Bossa Nova Me Around” was a reliable choice.
I used to get so annoyed with how long you took to get ready. Blonde chunks sizzled pin straight. Streaks of orangey-brown slathered on long, thin legs for that curious sunkissed glow in January. Eyebrows filled and a matte nude lip. Your outfits were simple, timeless, predictable: skinny black jeans, suede black booties with a block heel, a white top with some kind of feminine adornment, like lace.
Were you subliminally preparing to be a good memory? Were you gorgeous because you knew you wouldn’t last?
I recall your physical body only to assert that it’s not your legacy. That in all its rare and unforgettable beauty, it was still the most banal thing about you. That it’s the only part of you that no longer exists.
I spend a lot of time sniffing out your moral compass or your sense of humor in other people, only to come up short. Sometimes it feels like you and I had different understandings of friendship and life than everyone else in the world. But I’m slowly learning that the parts of you I mourn the most are already within me, and that if I can manage to turn inward, you’ll never truly leave.
The week I got cheated on, you took me to Fado to watch the Liverpool match. We drank Guinness and cheered with the rowdy international crowd and for a couple of hours, I’d forgotten about my ravaged heart.
On our trip to Napa Valley in 2016, we snuck into a $50 wine tour without paying. We tipsily drove home in a rented convertible, high on our petty crime, howling as we negotiated sharp turns through the California countryside. When we went out on the town that night, the owner of that very winery spotted us in a bar, screamed, “HEY I KNOW YOU GUYS!” and we sprinted down the street like two cartoon bandits.
One day we were standing in the kitchen, discussing important qualities in men. We both agreed that “excitable” was number one—someone whose enthusiasm toward the mundane was just as palpable as the extraordinary. I suppose I must have felt this way because of the precedent you set. Nothing was too small to celebrate. No one was too different or too distant to love with all your heart.
You and I are bound by the intangible charms of life: a Zeppelin riff, a thoughtfully timed Emerson quote, the smell of fresh coffee. I see you in the yellowing sunrise over the Delaware river. You still get up at 5:30 AM to run the Ben Franklin before work. You wear flats on the subway, keep your heels in your desk.
Kathleen sounds like a wonderful person. I'm glad she brightened the world and your life with her radiant presence for as long as she could.
Thank you for sharing. Mining pain and loss is so hard. Much respect for this piece.
Sounds like a joyful friendship and friend.
This is the song that keeps coming to mind: "Seasons in the Sun" — https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tPcc1ftj8E