Christina and I met in kindergarten. My first memory of her is Halloween of 1989. I couldn’t tell you what my costume was, but I remember that Christina dressed as a flower, a hand sewn costume that looked professional but that her mother made, and during our sharing circle she stood up and spun around and I was in awe of the petals that framed her face.
We were bonded from an early age because we were both class pariahs with summer birthdays. While every other student brought in cupcakes on their birthdays, the “summer kids” had to have accommodations like celebrating a half birthday, or sharing a rush of fake birthday cupcakes the last week of June. My birthday is July 9th and Christina’s was July 21st. She was always taller than me, but I was always older than her, so we were even.
In 3rd grade, I decided to join Brownies like many of the other girls in our grade. I’ll be honest- I was there for the cookies. I quit after one year. Christina continued with Girl Scouts until she reached their highest honor.
In 4th grade, Christina and I both chose to play the clarinet. We had private lessons together and then in 5th grade we joined the band. Christina and I both played clarinet in 2 school bands, for a total of 8 years. She was a first clarinet, I played second. She would choose to sit next to me when the opportunity arose, but by high school was usually redirected to her spot in the front row. She always sat directly in front of me so we could still chat and when I had no idea where we were supposed to be in the music because I was chatting to anyone else or otherwise not paying attention, all I had to do was tap her shoulder one time and she would point quickly to the correct measure in the music. She never once got annoyed with me. At least, if she did, she never showed it.
I joined field hockey in 8th grade. She had already been playing since 6th grade. She was good. I was not.
We both chose the same high school, out of town, in 9th grade. We both continued to play field hockey. I continued to be not good. She continued to be far better. I think the only reason I stuck with it is because I had fun on the bus rides, I had fun cheering on my team mates, and I had fun socializing over snacks; all largely because of Christina.
Because we both were in band, we had roughly the same class schedule for most of high school. We stuck together in study hall, in the same seats in the corner, two shy girls quietly gossiping with each other and loosely spiraling about being the new students in a new school. We had grown up in the same school building from kindergarten through 8th grade before this, spending all 9 years with fewer than 50 students in our class, feeling like each person in the building was family, to suddenly knowing only a handful of peers in what felt like an endless sea of uncertainty for the first time in our lives.
In 9th grade Christina discovered Flowers in the Attic by V.C Andrews. She brought it to history class one day, shoved it into my hands and said it was “amazing” and we needed to talk about it. I brought it home and started reading. And then I brought it to school and kept reading. And I brought it to history class and continued reading. She had happened upon the motherload of this series, from her aunt if I remember correctly, and she would always be one book ahead of me. We would sit beside each other in Western Civilization with these novels in our laps, secretly reading. Then we would eagerly discuss them, through notes or whispers. We read about generations of these bizarre attic children. I didn’t do well in Western Civ. Christina was able to somehow read V.C. Andrews and pay attention, though, and she continued to get A’s.
In 10th grade, both members of the St. John the Baptist Church, Christina and I took CCD classes on Monday nights. We volunteered locally, raking leaves at retirement home communities together. These were perfect opportunities for us to continue to discuss our secret obsession with trash novels and we later celebrated our Confirmation together.
For the last couple of years of high school, Christina and I both chose different electives that interfered with band and so we attended Night Band. Although she was younger than me by a whole 2 weeks, she saved up for a car before I did and got her license before me too. She would pick me up in her Ford Bronco and we would drive together to school on Tuesday and Thursday nights. She was a stickler for a pristine windshield and I remember being in awe of her confidence barreling around in her truck.
Christina was one of the most consistent friends I have ever had. She was also kind, always open, and always supportive. We didn’t argue or fight like I did with most friends. I remember only one real conflict we had. I don’t remember what started it, but I remember her saying that sometimes she felt like I didn’t like her. I don’t know if she said this, but what I heard was that she was a better friend to me than I was to her. I became defensive and disagreed with her because I knew she was right. The argument didn’t last long. Christina never cared about being right even when she was. She just wanted peace. We made up quickly and went back to our consistency, and we were both happy.
We both went away to college, and both found ourselves back in our hometown. Then we both left again, got married, and had kids. The last time I saw Christina was almost a year ago. We were both in attendance at a town celebration. I was in line at a food truck with another friend. I saw her from a distance and waved. I considered going over to chat in person, but we had been waiting in line for a while. I told myself I would catch her next time, because there had always been a next time.
That was the last time.
I’ve had about 24 hours now to process the fact that she has passed. I can’t believe it. I don’t understand it. Nothing makes sense and I wish she was still here.
Today, I pull out one of my top coping skills- Bob Marley. I felt myself begin to descend into a distracted spiral and I had a bright eyed, 6 month old boy in front of me, ready and needing to play. So I put on Bob Marley and we dance, I sing. I make a mental note to remember to sing Three Little Birds to him at bedtime tonight, because he likes it, and because it has nice words to listen to right before falling asleep.
It is his wake up a few hours after bedtime that does it to me. We sit in the chair in his room. I start to sing. Always my most captive audience, my son adjusts his body and turns his head up so he can stare at me and nothing else.
Rise up this mornin’
Smiled with the risin’ sun
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Saying’, (this is my message to you)
Singing’ don’t worry ’bout a thing
‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright
Singing’ don’t worry (don’t worry) ’bout a thing
‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright.
I sing this on a loop, like I do every song, every night, until it feels just right in the room to go to bed. But this night is different. This night, about 5 loops in, I start crying. And I can’t stop. My son has his eyes closed and I think he’s asleep. But he opens them when he hears my voice getting thin and shaking and I realize in all the times I have soothed his tears, he’s never watched me cry before.
Because the whole time I’m singing, I’m thinking of all the memories I have with Christina, many, but not nearly all, listed above. And I’m thinking about how we did so many things together, and how she was better than me at all of them.
And she was probably a better mother than me, too.
I try to stop the tears and regain the strength in my voice. I don’t want my son to watch me cry. But I’m having trouble with that so I just continue singing as best I can. My son watches me intently and I don’t know if I’m projecting but I think I can see vague confusion in his eyes. He keeps staring and then he closes his eyes again and nuzzles in close. I am still crying, but holding him helps. He falls asleep and I stay there, holding him, telling him not to worry, that every little thing will be alright, and wondering how convincing I really sound through the tears.
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