A Goodbye You Didn't Know Was a Goodbye

The Last Conversation You Had With Someone Who Died Unexpectedly

The Goodbye You Didn't Know Was a Goodbye


"The Last Conversation You Had With Someone Who Died Unexpectedly"
It wasn't a remarkable conversation--not at first.
Mara had called just as I was stepping out the door, hurried, keys between my teeth, jacket half-zipped. Her name lit up my phone, and something in me softened. She was always like that--turning ordinary moments into pauses. We were childhood friends. We have spent years together. She was always a funny, energetic and lively girl. She was the one who never let me feel down. She knew the art of making people happy.
"Got a minute?" she asked.
I almost said no. I almost told her I was late, that I'd call her back, that whatever it was could wait. But something in her voice--light, but with a worn edge--made me shift the keys to my pocket and lean against the doorframe.
We talked about nothing, then everything. She told me about the plant she'd rescued from a clearance shelf that was now, miraculously, alive. I told her about the dream I'd had where we were children again, racing bicycles downhill with no brakes. She laughed--really laughed--and said, "Maybe we should try doing reckless things again." She said that she wanted me to join her in these vacations----which are going to start 15 days from now.
Before we hung up, she said, "Thanks for picking up. I just... needed to hear someone who knows me."
It felt like such a simple sentence. I didn't know it would become a memory with sharp edges.
The next morning, her brother called. There had been an accident. Sudden. Unfairly swift. The kind of thing that makes the world tilt for a second, as if you've stepped off a stair you didn't know was missing.
I felt like I could not make it through. With a heavy heart, I went to her funeral. What I saw there was a young girl who is no more funny, lively or energetic. I looked at that innocent face for a long time. The charming, weird and everlasting memories lingered through my mind. 'What about the vacations?' I muttered as if she would reply. But, ofcourse, she never did.
For days I replayed that last call, hunting for something--some hint, some omen, some clue that the world was about to crack. But there was nothing. Just her voice, tired and warm. Just her gratitude, quiet and real.
And then it struck me: not every last moment announces itself. Somewhere in my mind was a regret of being helpless infront of nature. Some arrive disguised as an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, wrapped in small talk, punctuated by laughter that now feels like a gift.

I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. But I had that conversation.
And in the end, it was enough to carry--fragile, unfinished, but mine to keep.