My friend.

Once, she lost a loved one.

We mourned, we cried, we laughed at the wrong things. Or maybe the right things.

She didn’t feel well.

We met and drank coffee  and Pepsi and solved the world’s problems and tried to sort our parenthood and wifeliness, and a good Christian life.

We prayed.

She got the diagnosis. I refused to believe.

We broke bread and cried a little and prayed a lot.

And I saw her strength, and her youth, and her  sweet soul.

And I accepted what the doctors said, but I knew she’d beat it.

Or so I convinced myself.

And we decided hat we’d concentrate on things more fun than the world’s problems.

And I went home and prayed some more.

She had surgery.  We chatted, we talked, she was tired and sore.

But feeling better every day.

We made plans to get together when she left the hospital.

And she got home from the hospital, but I couldn’t get over there, new job and all.

So we chatted some more.  And she was feeling better.

A little better every day.

So we decided I’d be taking her for coffee when she felt just a little bit better.

Soon.

And I waited for her to tell me to come on over, with beverages and purple ink that she probably already had in her stash anyways.

And I messaged, but she didn’t respond.

And then she died.

Just like that.

Shattered.

I still owed you a coffee my friend. 

Dammit.