standing in the cemetery toward the top of the hill where the lighthouse shines, the poetess and i had an easy conversation about hard things. we talked about fucking up our kids and our mothers’ mothering failures and forgiving our mothers and my eating disorder and her therapy and the fuck-off we feel towards birds because they can fly away while we remain stuck on the ground. later that night she came to my room and sat in the only chair while i looked up at her from my spot on the floor and we laughed about my awkward but innocent eating disordered comment exchange with others and discussed miscarriages and abortions and baby caskets and grief and how to write about these subjects to help whomever might read our words. the poetess and i converse about taboo topics with absurd laughter that snorts to the surface instead of spilling tears because we’ve already cried tears and more tears and more tears alone. together we can laugh. the darkest details twist inappropriately funny between us.
you wouldn’t know by looking at her that she is a poetess. she looks like the lead singer of a punk rock band who has softened into a lady who will kick your ass politely. you probably wouldn’t notice that she’s short. her energy and posture and boot-clad big feet present like a tall person. she has the most impressive puffing up stature of anyone i’ve met. i like everything about her. i liked her before i met her, hearing about her from a mutual friend. more than a year passed between our initial meeting and choosing each other as friends. our friendship was decided in a single moment on this island a year ago. the poetess performed a drunk re-enactment of that moment two nights ago. someone was bullying her with misunderstanding and i stood up for her. literally, i stood up from my chair with such speed and force that my chair flew back behind me and i gesticulated with giant passion, raised voice, and a glare that silenced the bullying. we instantly knew that i would bust jaws and break teeth with my fists for her. i fight for who and what matters to me. she matters. that moment sealed us.
a month later she stood up for me with her heart instead of fists. she was the only person i confided in when i got the diagnosis. i was in shock when i told her. she addressed my gravest concerns with her nursing expertise and recommended what doctors hadn’t bothered to tell me. she offered her knowledge, her wisdom, her love, loyalty, and support. we traversed those weeks with strength and trepidation. that diagnosis was the first crisis we survived together. we combined and thereby increased our power and were rewarded with a miracle that ended the crisis.
a month and a half ago we had our first funk. our situation sucked, our handling of the situation sucked, and we isolated ourselves in sucking singularly instead of sucking together. that’s the best we could do at the time. we did alright. we’ll know better how to navigate the next funk whenever we fuck up.
returning to this island where our friendship began has highlighted and integrated our growing together and our healing through the past year. the hour has arrived for us to amble up the gravel road to the brewery for a local beer to celebrate our healing and wholeness. as soon as possible, please take your friend somewhere to celebrate your friendship. invite the friend for you who is loved like the poetess by me.