Best Friends

We are sunken. F. shuffles through the house in grief, his spirit leaden. I follow on his heels, grieving for him. S. was dear to both of us; but he was F’s closest friend. I am sad that he is gone. I am sad for his wife, my good friend, and their children. My heart breaks for my husband.

They were as intimate as two straight men can be. For the last two years they met weekly for long talks over beers. They sat close, forehead to forehead, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, sharing their stories.

It was a ritual: F. would hurry through dinner, getting up occasionally to check his cell phone, just to make sure that S. had not called to cancel. When S. became too ill to meet him at their favorite café, F. would go to his house, where they would sit in the living room and talk for hours. In time, the beer gave way to tea. Then water. Then nothing. Just S. in a hospital bed, and F. at his side.

Not so long ago, losing our friends was unthinkable. We were too young. Indeed, S. hadn't even it 50. But now, the people who are getting sick and dying are our peers. They are in their 50s, they have nearly-grown children. They have plans and dreams for the next stage of life. They could be us.

F’s nights are much quieter now. He finishes dinner and retreats to his study. He tries to work, but most of the time he picks up his guitar. From the kitchen I hear him practicing tunes he had learned to play for S., tunes he now plays for himself.