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MY FRIEND LEFT

By Josie Peralta

The night before he left we went for a drink; there was little conversation,

but some bickering from me. One would think that it is easier to say goodbye to a friend

than to a lover, but there is sensuality in everything we do. I love my friends dearly.

It is easier to be angry than to be sad, so I bickered and whined, like a little child, instead of saying goodbye. He, as always, never let his guard down. We finished the wine and parted in anger. How could we otherwise—if three times a week we shared: dinner, a glass of wine, poetry, chores, movies, books, art galleries, music, friends and a great conversation?

How can you say goodbye with a smile when you are losing a friend that fulfilled so much? I woke up next morning, with a heavy feeling in my heart. I looked at the clock; it was five am and I said to myself, "This is wrong! Two friend who love each other should not part in anger, but in joy, sadness and gratitude for what they had until they meet again."

Then, still in my pajamas, I set the coffeepot with two cups of water. I went to the living room, and wrapped a gift for him. I poured one cup of coffee, black, strong just the way he likes it. I call this a "macho coffee." I made the other, between dark and light, with sugar, just the way I like it! I went to his apartment, called his name from downstairs, "What about a sunrise toast with coffee?" "Great! I packed the coffeepot," he replied with a big smile.

I had wrapped the gift in the bright linen orange napkin he used when we had dinner together. In the center of the napkin, I placed a white candle, along with my favorite little porcelain angel. I closed the gift by tying two knots in the napkin like a beggar’s bundle because this knot reminded me of my father, a wandering bohemian, and unpredictable, just like my friend. I gave him the gift. "Thank you", he said. "I will open it later." And as I walked downstairs I said, "Thank you for the lessons."

I went back to my house, got dressed and went to work…

The next day I read what I had written and I asked myself, "Why does it hurt so much if your mind is telling you that you’re not in love with him? Now write from your heart instead of your mind, and here is what my heart wrote in two languages:

I thought I had found the reason for my pain through the poem, but my heart and my mind were still restless—irritated and achy for weeks to come. I did not know why. The thoughts about my friend were flashing in and out like thunder lights mixed with memories of my father. Something about my friend was linked to the scars that my alcoholic father had left in me.

The image of my father stumbling in the cobblestone street under the rain keeps haunting me. It was the night he tried to kill my mother with a knife, it was the night that a four-year-old little girl saved her mother’s life. That little girl was me. Why is all this coming back now? My inner voice responded, "Stay with the pain, the answer is waiting." I waited for weeks. Finally, the answer came!

"Dad, after fifty years, I have looked for your grave. When I found it, I traveled oceans and lands to meet you again. But it had to be in your grave, because while you were alive, you left again and again, and my little hands tried to reach you, but you left again and again. Since then, I have tried to find you in each man, and I have forgiven you in each one of them. That is why, when my friend left, I mourned for you for the last time, in each drop of rain."

When you left I cried all night,

Exhausted from crying, I fell sleep

In my mother’s arms…"