I’ve lost a friend. Four days ago I received news that one of my closest friends since childhood had left this life. My reaction surprised even myself. I gasped and my hands flew up to my face, covering it as if to shut out the information I’d just learned and somehow make it untrue.
I wanted to write. That’s what we writers often do when we’re struggling with something: we make sense of it on paper. It’s our therapy. But words didn’t come.
Lisa was a writer. This was a fact that had bonded us at an early age. We’d compare thoughts, poems, and stories. She was the only person I knew who loved writing as much as I did. “The moon is keen and I like green” was one of the most memorable stanzas from an early poem she had written.