I Live to Let You Shine

One sweltering summer night, most of a bottle of Hungarian red wine between us, Mona and I arrived at the obvious idea: we’d write each other’s obituaries. For the impossible scenario. For whichever one of us went first, which of course was never going to happen. We each took a sheet of paper, found opposite corners of her room, and started writing. Mine was garbage. Read it yourself.

So, Mona. You’re sitting on your beanbag right now, looking over at me with that grin, laughing your stupid laugh while you write terrible things about me. Fine. Here’s what I’ve got. If you die, I can finally tell the truth: that you’re too helpless to fill your own iPod without assistance. That you call your dad when a completely ordinary ladybug turns up anywhere in your vicinity. And let’s not forget that you reliably burn something every single time we try to cook anything worth eating. How do you like that.

But when I actually try to imagine you not being here anymore—a cold runs straight down my spine. We saved each other. We pulled each other back into life. You’re looking serious now too; can you feel what I feel? It terrifies me to think about never being able to hug you from behind again, never hearing that ridiculous laugh when I try to be funny, never lying awake because you’ve decided the bathroom is the right venue for singing at two in the morning. No, Monalein. We are never going to die. Because we are immortal.

The keyboard is drowning under my tears as I post this, and none of it does you justice. I will never forgive myself for not being there with you in your last moments, my love. We’ll always be exactly this: young and free and beautiful.

I miss you. My best friend died tonight in a car accident.