Dead Best Friend Club.

I swore I’d never write to you, but here I am. 

We used to do everything together since we were four. We’d sit for hours talking about anything we felt like: our families, summer to-do lists, how we could scrape together money for concert tickets and trips to the city. Remember the secret language we made up so we could talk about boys in front of your little sister? I remember the day she was born; we were 11, you called me the night before to say your mom was going into labor and your seat was empty the next day at school. I couldn’t wait to get home to find out which name they chose. We pitched so many to your mom. We made up the best nicknames for people, too. Remember Schwids? Bleak-beak? What about your old-man neighbor Damn-man, Damn-man, the great and mighty Damn-man; who always said “Damn! Damn! Damn!” when he watered his flowers?

Your backyard was scary. Remember we smashed glass back there for stained glass art to put in the windows of the double french doors leading to your bedroom so your brother would stop spying on us? Your mom grounded both of us.

We’d watch dance videos over and over until we memorized each move, we tortured boys into making human pyramids and pull-up competitions, we did everything. You helped me with my chores, and even when I was grounded my mom would let you sleepover; on school nights, too. Remember the summer you lived with me? When your parents were splitting up and you didn’t want to be around them. We’d sit in complete silence, trimming our split ends with your fabric scissors. The same scissors you used to piece together a homemade strawberry print dress to wear to prom 2 years post high school. I thought you were ridiculous for going to that, but you made a promise to a boy, and he was so nice that you couldn’t let him down.

You were kind, bold, and funny. But now you're dead. 

I see you all the time in little things I do, and even though I swore I’d never write to you, here I am. You creep into my mind when it’s dark, and whenever I’m worried someone is getting too close to my heart.

I still know all the words to Beastie Boy’s Intergalactic, and I think about you whenever I scrunch my hair.
I hate it. 

I still have the crystal pink seahorse you gave me; it’s hidden in an old urn I keep in my closet with other dead things. 

I wonder where you’d be now. Married, with a kid, doing God knows what for work - something creative and artsy, around eccentric people and fashion. You’d wake up an hour earlier than you’d need to just so that you can style your hair in intricate waves and themed decorations hidden in your crunchy, bleach-blonde curls, and you’d piece together a mix-patterned outfit just because you’re you. 

Would we still be friends? Would we still talk every day? Would we still remember our secret language? Would I be any different than who I am now because you’re still alive? 

I was reminded of you recently and almost started to talk about you. My friend was telling me about his childhood best friend that died suddenly; sharing memories and speaking so fondly of him. I cried, and not just because his memories were so profound, but because it made me think of you. I wanted to welcome him to the dead best friend club, but I didn’t say a single word. Your name never left my mouth; never have and never will. 

Your death wasn’t cute, nor bad, nor your fault. You died because you had to. And why I don’t talk about you is not cute, nor bad, nor my fault. It hurts too much, and there’s no point.