Bandaid

I don't remember exactly when it was the first time I cried as if she were leaving. I know I did it more than once, using that vain imagination thing I'm so good at. Or so bad at being good at. I laid in my bed and let my mind think on it, more and more until it was as real as ever. I heaved and clenched my teeth with air rushing staggeredly in and out of my lungs My fingers created that fabric squeaking sound gripping the material on my pillowcase as I hugged it hard.

It happened. The day went by feeling more like taking care of chores or going on a vacation or a road trip. We laughed...we squabbled...we ate ghetto cajun seafood. At the end of the day, we watched the internet videos that created the endless inside jokes that laced our friendship...and realizing the significance that Judy and her baby doll hands held was too much to contain the tear forcing its way out. I sucked the rest back in while in front of her, of course. I said goodnight, laid down, and my heart got unbearably loud. I let out a tiny sob from the pain that was growing larger by the minute.

I didn't want to do it.......No!...this was the last night. I'm going to do it. I walked the two feet from my door to hers and knocked. I opened it and stood in the doorway, and even with the darkness hiding my tears she asked me if I was already crying. I shrugged, said yes, and came over and sat on the bed. I went in and out of crying, and in my crying, wavered in and out of my words being choked. Finally, in a raw, soul-baring moment I started sobbing. Hard. I was inhaling and exhaling air like a squeaky toy. Between sharp punctuations of breath I began to whimper, and I felt the distant sadness and compassion form on her face which I couldn't even see. I could hear it in her emotionally inflected and (slightly confused), “Hey......it's gonna be okay”and feel it in the warm (what do you expect from a radiator) hand on my shoulder. I pulled her by her wrist over to a sitting position where I could go in her arms without violating the awkward bra-less protocol. My face ended up more in her upper arm, and I wept some more, my arm around her with my hand gathering and squeezing the shirt fabric around her lower back just like it did months before to the pillowcase. I sat back with my roll of toilet paper and very full sinuses and we talked about my angry texting and pain, our clashing prides, her lack of a desire to understand differing mindsets, and how we each fueled each other's problems on. We tried once more (and I think succeeded), as always, to make ourselves and our hearts understood and clear...even though this was the most strained and argumentative friendship either of us have experienced, I can say that having a strong friendship surviving through all kinds of crap is one of the best things God has ever invented.

Somewhere between those topics and the bare honesty and finality of the moment that made both of us stop and think, she started crying. Weeks before, I asked her naively over the phone if she would cry while dropping me at the airport, saying bye for the last time. Her response was understandably colored with the effect on her soul of my angry texts and guilt trips I had probably dumped on her less than 24 hours before...and countless times before and after. I was a jerk.
It wasn't tears that I wanted. She can make herself cry any time she wants (just ask her—it's freaky). I longed to be missed, and I didn't want “I'm gonna miss all of my friends” or “...all you guys”. I wanted a “Melissa, I'm going to miss you”. Not exclusively me, of course, but I wanted to feel valued individually and not just on the whole with people who had gotten somewhat close to her. I told her I felt so insecure in the lack of that and in different aspects of our friendship, oblivious to what a knife in her side that would be.
I didn't notice her crying right away, as I was talking about myself as usual. The last time she cried when I was with her was because of me only focusing on myself and not asking her how life was going, on top of how life was going for her, period. So when I could make out that she was crying, I felt a powerful pang of guilt and regret that stood for my selfishness in our entire friendship. When faced with the decision to wallow in the regret or respond to my crying buddy, my crying buddy was more important than the past I can't change. I enjoy actions as symbolism. I've always thought of how much it would say to wipe away someone's tears when they're crying. Just gushy, isn't it? Well...that's how I roll. I couldn't tell immediately, so I reached up and touched the top of her cheek with my finger to see if she really was crying. Whatever that “wipe away” thing would say to her, I wanted to say it loudly and immediately. So I lightly grabbed her face with my fingertips and swept the tears away with my thumbs. I brought it down into a hug, and the same hand that grievingly pulled at the shirt fabric on her back moments ago was going back and forth on it in a consoling rub. I had no idea why she was crying until later, but I naturally assumed it was because of difficult circumstances. She spoke brokenly and reflectively of the thing she was going through, an unusual vulnerability that never fails to yank on my heart. I scooted over and sat back with her. To hell with bra-less protocol; I wanted to hold my crying best friend. I always wanted to hold or hug her when she cried because I wanted to do anything that would make that armor-less moment of hers stick around. The less Superwoman, the better. I put my arm around her and pulled her over, leaning her head on my shoulder. I leaned my head on top of hers and absorbed for a moment the volumes that were spoken in utter silence. The only thing I could hear was the wind outside and her sniffling, until I cut the quietness with the thing on my mind that trumped everything else I could've said. I told her how proud I was of her for obeying God no matter what. She ruined the serious moment with a retort about how every other door was slammed in her face. She loves ruining serious moments but I think it's a reflection of how she responds in general. She learns, responds, and reacts in private. That's why I don't stab her in the eye when she makes a joke in those moments. I know she gets it, and she doesn't have to show it right away.

The next day was also a blur. As she walked into the airport with me, I was still in “take care of business” mode. It shifted when she asked me out of the blue if I was going to be okay. When she said to say bye quick, “like a bandaid”, I knew she was thinking of me because of how doing that would be so much easier, and I know she knows that fast or slow, there is no way this was going to not hurt me. She's my bandaid.