We did not become friends easily. There were many barriers. We did not speak the same cultural language, share the same values, see eye to eye. Had we not been family we would never had spent enough time together to build a relationship. But we shared something essential – the belief that family was important. That meant we reached out, and we kept reaching out even if we were clumsy, even if interactions were painful or confusing, even when efforts at connection and boundaries were harsh. We kept showing up. We found more things we shared. The differences and areas of conflict became less important, took up less air time, less conversation, caused less pain. We were both creative. We were both passionate about healthy communities. We both loved colour. We both loved Poppy. We both turned up in practical ways when someone was struggling. (I used to do and be these things. At the moment I just try to stay afloat. I see people hurting all around me and I hope someone comes because I can’t make it. I send wishes, as useless as thoughts and prayers. I keep my head down.)

She got cancer. I was not afraid of the hospital. I took Poppy, every couple of days. I shaved her hair. I rubbed her feet. I listened to her frustration. When she tried to start a blog but was too exhausted to think straight, I held her hand. I haven’t had cancer, but I’ve been there. I know what it is to struggle to find grace among the overwhelming grief of illness. We talked about death. She told me how overwhelming it was to have people visiting and crying. I cried in the carpark. I cried in bed at night, or in the shower. We showed up. It was very small and very simple and it changed everything. I sat with her once in the ICU and read Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine to her. We thought she might die that night. I wept silently behind the book. She found she could trust me.

I was still writing the blog then. I had a sense of authority over my own voice. I was sharing intimately and at some point she started reading it. She started to see me differently. One day she brought me a babushka doll from her travels, a nod to multiplicity. We were having silent conversations neither of us knew how to put into words. We grew closer. She visited during some really hard times and quietly left cash behind her that I greatfully spent on medications and groceries. She took Poppy for afternoons, did painting and baking together. When Poppy developed a passion for unusual or rare lollies she instituted ‘Snack Attack’ where they went and sampled confectionary from other countries.

We played card games together. She planned her new home. We talked about chronic illness, fluctuating capacity, raising children, trauma recovery, making the best of where you found yourself. She excelled at that. I was more inclined to tilt at windmills. Rifts remained. She didn’t attend my birthdays, my wedding, my children’s parties. She went away for Christmases so she didn’t have to find out if we would visit or not. She was blunt. She was persistent. She reached out, shared memes and articles and artworks and waited to catch up while my life become more complicated and busy. She left a basket of goodies at our door when we moved house. She gave strange gifts of random things she found clearing out her shed. She gave thoughtful gifts like the green velvet gloves she brought me back from her visit to Rome. When we caught up there was a trust and an honesty I valued deeply. We had seen each other in raw places.

She called me to hospital and Nightingale held the fort so I could visit alone. I took oil to offer a massage, a book to read. She was happy to see me and I was happy to see her and it was easy to be close. I was so glad to be called and so glad to be able to respond and the connection made my heart sing. I rubbed her back. We talked about cancer and health and sickness and children and death and gardens. I stayed as long as I could. She was strong.

She apologised to me once, after chemo had blasted her health. She told me she used to think I was so rude, the way I would cancel things on the day, or try to make plans last minute. She hadn’t understood what it was to be chronically ill, to not know how much energy you’d have or how badly you would sleep or how much pain you might be in. She said she was that person now, trying to explain to her friends that she did want to catch up, but today was a bad day. I hugged her. She gave me her carrot cake recipe.

She asked me to come to the hospital again. Something is wrong and I don’t understand what’s going on. You understand hospitals, I need you to come and make sense of it. I came the next day. She looked like she was dying. She knew she was, but the doctors were telling her she was better and could go home. She was confused. I helped her find the truth. It happened fast. I came home raging with grief. I showed up. I did everything I could to carry out her wishes. Sometimes as I’d walk past the foot of her bed, she would open her eyes and see me and I could see she recognised me still, could see the look in the them that said ‘I knew you’d be here.’ We talked about Poppy. She worried about Poppy. When things were hard she had kept a spare room available just in case Poppy might need it. I reassured her that Poppy has a whole community. They are loved. They are safe. We have them. I held her and she let me. I asked her what she needed and she was honest. We saw one another. She died.

My world is so much emptier. She was there so much, so much more than I’d realised. I felt guilty about all the things she’d missed out on, all the complications that made catching up in person hard. I miss her so badly. She cared and she loved us. That’s incredibly precious and increasingly rare. I am raising children with disabilities and complicated care needs and I am so isolated and often so lonely. She reached out over and over and I was safe and seen when we touched base. There’s a huge hole in my life where she was.

As the months pass, the pain is tempered with gratitude. I tried hard to see her for who she really was, even when we had no understanding. When she was stressful I set boundaries but I cared about her so I tried to make them warm rather than rejecting. We achieved something spectacular, a genuine relationship. A shared understanding. I was lucky to know her. We were lucky to have her as long as we did. She was precious and valued. She valued us. She loved us. We grew that together, tolerating being visible and vulnerable, tolerating the gaps and absences. It is always a part of me now, irreplaceable. She will live in us forever.