And I Would Say Goodbye

Today I'm thinking of those no longer with us. Addy spoke of our friend Mals, recently. She said she met someone who knew her, who used to go visit her in hospital every day. Mals had leukemia. She died in a very short time of finding out. Two strokes from the chemo, the loss of her ability to walk, and even, for the most part, to talk...and then she was gone.

I never saw her after she was diagnosed. I didn't get to see her before I left for Australia and when I came back, she said, wait, no, not yet (probably not wanting me to see what she looked like now, probably wanting me to remember her as she was, which I do, Mals, I do) and then she was gone.

It happened so fast, like a picture, fading from a screen, like this mists of dream scattering into wakefulness. I had a hard time dealing with it. And so I do what I always do.

I wrote.

I wrote her an obituary, the only one I've ever written...and today, as I remember her, I share it, with all of you:

It's the strangest things that remind me of you. Driving up ramps. Shopping at Isetan, KLCC. The backview of a blue Proton hatchback.

You gave me love and laughter.

And then you went away.

I cannot cry for you. I cried when Addy told me you were sick. I cried when Sree told me there wasn't much time left. I cried when I heard your voice, thin and tired, saying, Jenn, you have to let me go.

But when I got that text: Mala passed away at 6.15 this morning... I didn't cry then. I couldn't.

You were getting better. You were home from the hospital after so many months.

When I got back to Malaysia, I asked, when?

You said wait. You said, not yet. You were not strong enough for visitors. You said you'd tell me when.

You didn't say I'd never see you again.

So I wait for the phone call telling me you want to meet up for coffee. At Delifrance. Or Coffee Bean. Maybe Starbucks. We will talk about things that matter. Like your new job. Or my new book. And then we can stroll through Kinokuniya and thumb through a few books. We could try on a few clothes at British India or Padini and snort derisively at the fact that they seem to only cater for anorexic teenagers. We'd comfort ourselves with cinnamon buns. Or chocolate eclairs. Then we'll catch a scary movie (I'll peek out behind half closed fingers and you can stopper up your ears and we'll compare notes after and try to figure out what it was all about).

And then when it's time to go, I'll hug you tightly and tell you I love you.

And I would say goodbye.