Memory

I remember going to the memorial service of a family friend at the beginning of the decade. She was a longtime friend of my mom's, and I was not quite to the adult age where you stop noticing adults' ages. I was slightly uncomfortable going, because I had not been to many memorial services, and because she had died of cancer, and because she had children my age and younger. I dressed in dark, somber and appropriate clothing and I sat next to my younger sister, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. It felt very surreal, and of course it was sad, so I withdrew.
But I didn't stay withdrawn. I couldn't, not when Susan's sister took the mic and shared anecdotal stories about her and Susan's life. Short stories, sweet, funny, homey, silly; she rambled on and on. What cut me, what stays with me today, was the part about how she and Susan shared a bedroom at one part of their lives. They used to lie awake, talking and laughing, rallying back and forth. Maybe they shared bunk beds, like I used to with my younger sister. Their mom would always wonder in consternation what in the world they still had left to talk about after being together all day. The sister started bawling even harder at this point. And now she no longer had that lifetime buddy, that girl to replay the day's moments.
I broke down, and my little sister broke down, and we joined my mom in tears and heartbreak.