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My Best Friend (To Lydia)
Since the dawn of my life, she was there.
From my first steps to my first day of secondary school.
She was there as the only mother & father figure that I could have.
She taught me how to read.
How to write.
How to laugh.
How to smile.
How to be, well me.
Sixteen years she was there.
Never forgetting about me.
Raised me like one of her own children.
Though I was not.
She knew my mother, watched her grow up as well.
She was an older woman, up in age.
But I never thought much of it.
Much of when she had to stop to catch her breath.
Or how she had so many doctors appointments.
She was Lydia; my mother, my best friend, my father, my nanny.
She played the role of best friend and parent.
She was everything I had.
The only one that I always had.
She never looked at me like, like I had done something wrong...
Like I was the phone ringing in the other room when you just sat down.
Or the fly that had just landed inside of your soup.
She looked at me like I was something promising.
Someone that could do something amazing in the world.
Someone special.
She thought that I was special.
Me...?
Of all people, just some girl.
Black hair and gold eyes.
Nothing more than that.
And I loved her for all of the things that she gave me.
But when she died...
A funeral.
A psalm.
Tear stained napkins.
A poetry book from her to me.
A brief monologue about her life.
Who she was and what she had done.
Had been born to parents, with no siblings.
Had married and had a son.
And had a raised a girl that was never her job to raise.
A girl whose father hated her and mother died on her.
That girl cried at her funeral.
And how to be physically removed from the grave site.
She died not in vain.
But in memory of all the wonderful things she had done for me.
I loved her.
Like a best friend.
Like a nanny.
Like a neighbor.
Like a mother.
Like Lydia.
She loved with her entire heart.
And ever since I fell mine slowly breaking more and more...
I think of her often.
Surrounded by sorrow I often think of ones that have already passed.
My life fell apart after she left me.
And I miss her still.
Every moment of every day.
And I like to think back to those days.
Sitting with her and talking.
Her holding me close to her and reading to me from the poetry book.
The very one that she gave to me.
A birthday present.
A parting gift.
A loving memory of who she was.
And what she will always mean.
Thank you Lydia.
You taught me how to read.
How to write.
How to smile.
How to laugh.
How to love.
How to be myself.
But you taught me one other thing, something that I still use.
You taught me how to survive.
"Damaged people are dangerous;
because they know they can survive."
From my first steps to my first day of secondary school.
She was there as the only mother & father figure that I could have.
She taught me how to read.
How to write.
How to laugh.
How to smile.
How to be, well me.
Sixteen years she was there.
Never forgetting about me.
Raised me like one of her own children.
Though I was not.
She knew my mother, watched her grow up as well.
She was an older woman, up in age.
But I never thought much of it.
Much of when she had to stop to catch her breath.
Or how she had so many doctors appointments.
She was Lydia; my mother, my best friend, my father, my nanny.
She played the role of best friend and parent.
She was everything I had.
The only one that I always had.
She never looked at me like, like I had done something wrong...
Like I was the phone ringing in the other room when you just sat down.
Or the fly that had just landed inside of your soup.
She looked at me like I was something promising.
Someone that could do something amazing in the world.
Someone special.
She thought that I was special.
Me...?
Of all people, just some girl.
Black hair and gold eyes.
Nothing more than that.
And I loved her for all of the things that she gave me.
But when she died...
A funeral.
A psalm.
Tear stained napkins.
A poetry book from her to me.
A brief monologue about her life.
Who she was and what she had done.
Had been born to parents, with no siblings.
Had married and had a son.
And had a raised a girl that was never her job to raise.
A girl whose father hated her and mother died on her.
That girl cried at her funeral.
And how to be physically removed from the grave site.
She died not in vain.
But in memory of all the wonderful things she had done for me.
I loved her.
Like a best friend.
Like a nanny.
Like a neighbor.
Like a mother.
Like Lydia.
She loved with her entire heart.
And ever since I fell mine slowly breaking more and more...
I think of her often.
Surrounded by sorrow I often think of ones that have already passed.
My life fell apart after she left me.
And I miss her still.
Every moment of every day.
And I like to think back to those days.
Sitting with her and talking.
Her holding me close to her and reading to me from the poetry book.
The very one that she gave to me.
A birthday present.
A parting gift.
A loving memory of who she was.
And what she will always mean.
Thank you Lydia.
You taught me how to read.
How to write.
How to smile.
How to laugh.
How to love.
How to be myself.
But you taught me one other thing, something that I still use.
You taught me how to survive.
"Damaged people are dangerous;
because they know they can survive."
Published 16th Apr 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Anonymous
28th Aug 2015 12:37pm
This reminded me of the endless thoughts I carry with me to this day regarding the funeral of a friend of mine that was murdered. This was actually quite a painful read for me. I hope that you have found some peace at least, or at least managed to write out some of your frustrations. Thank you for the read.
