Warning: This post is about suicide. If you, a loved one, friend, enemy are having thoughts of suicide, please call 988. Please reach out for help. Please.

I taught her twenty-four years ago when she was a sophomore. She had just moved to my school and, I will admit, I found her a little annoying. But, damn, that sophomore girl clung to me. Not just velcro. Emotional super glue.

She founded a creative writing club that she sort of served on as vice president. That club still exists today. And they still give “The Clap” which is what I created as a form of quick (“insincere”) appreciation.

When she was a senior, she was in my AP Lit class. And in February, she came to me with a private concern that enacted the mom in me and I acted. Yes, I went to her guidance counselor. I did all the right things that I knew to do. And then I made her my babysitter.

That’s when Velcro-girl became my backbone. Over the rest of the semester, this young woman was at my doorstep at least two times a week to care for my children while I worked night school. Or attended therapy (that she didn’t know). She thought my life was perfect, even talked about how she wanted my life. Little did she know that I was crafting myself together with aged super glue and tacky duct tape. But, if I could keep up the facade in school, then great.

But I told her that things weren’t great. Because I couldn’t lie to her.

That year, she refused to walk in graduation, which really upset me. I wanted her to feel celebrated. To know that she was loved. She gave me a blank book that she had created in art class. I took that blank book and filled with it with quotes and poetry and pictures and anything that looked beautiful to show her how much she meant to me. To show her the beauty that I saw in her.

University years arrived. Note, she still didn’t walk at graduation. But she had her book. She went to university. Her parents moved again. We sort of wove ourselves in and out of each others lives.

Note, very important note. When she was a senior, she told me about a memory she had. She remembered standing on the sidewalk with a three-legged dog. She was crying. And then she told me about a shop she liked to frequent. It was called the Pear Tree. NaNoWriMo of 2005, 2006 (?), I wrote the first draft of The Pear Tree House. It is now titled Polishing the Bones. And the book is dedicated to her.

Note, the featured image is Polishing The Bones. I was outlining Beth’s growth over the course of the novel. Note, my friend is not Beth. She was the physical inspriation for Susan.

She graduated from university (probably didn’t walk then either). She moved through life. Finally pursued her amazing husband (I will admit, I totally encouraged that shamelessly because he was so perfect for her). They moved. Married. Adopted a dog.

And moved back to close to where I live and our friendship picked up. Because, by that point, she wasn’t my children’s favorite babysitter or my student. She was my friend. I could admit to her some of my frailties and she didn’t judge me because she got it. She understood (like in-app purchases to keep playing a level).

Note, her name is my daughter’s first word.

Facades are a terrible thing. They look so believable. So perfect. The cracks are so delicately tucked into plain view that I can’t see them. I knew she suffered from sundry mental illnesses. She was open about the darkness. The pain. The sleepless nights. I knew. I spent time with her as a safeguard. I told her constantly that I loved her and that she was important to me. I said what I thought and what others will tell me are all the right words to say.

I gave her the book she gave me. Yes, in digital format because I am determined to have the novel published the old-school way.

Sometimes, the darkness is too much. The silence of time so deafening that the cotton wool stuffs our ears, seals our eyes. Chokes up our mouths.

She’s gone. Yesterday. I learned from her beautiful and grieving husband yesterday afternoon. I composed myself long enough to go to my classroom and work on lesson plans for today. I touched her artwork that she gave me twenty-one years ago. I laid my hands on her writing. And then I settled them into my green tote because I need to have that space for a little while. I will never let go of her artwork. She made them for me.

She used to write on the ceiling of my trailor. I don’t know how I got away with it. She took gold-paint markers and wrote quotes on the ceiling. Above my desk was “If you’re given lined paper, write backwards.” Or something like that. I think the attribution is wrong…originally given to Ray Bradbury. I don’t know.

We met Margaret Atwood together. My darling friend had a tattoo on her wrist in honor of The Handmaid’s Tale. I think it was just the acronym for “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” And it was in Latin. My friend showed her wrist to Ms. Atwood who smiled.

I have left my friend’s name out of this blog because her name is precious to me. She is laced around my heart which bleeds gold, like the Japanese pottery that when broken is sealed with gold so that the imperfections may shine. I also haven’t found her obituary yet. Maybe this is my own form of writing it for her. But I am not the person to publish her name. Just her legacy.

At my current school (not the one where I taught this young woman), I am the sponsor of the creative writing club. And we still run it the same way my friend designed twenty-three years ago. And I write blogs because she introduced me to Livejournal.

I got my first tattoo with her almost 14 years ago. A semi-colon. Because I saw the tendriled darkness and didn’t want her to leave. She got the same, a white one on her ankle.

My second tattoo is “Timshel” from East of Eden, her favorite book. She loved the idea of “Thou mayest.” That perfection is not what needs to be gained but the true intention of good. Of compassion.

Tomorrow, I will have my first tattoo touched up. And then have a bee added to the period. It is resting there. She had a bee tattoo on her arm.

If and when Polishing the Bones is published, you will read about a woman with a rose tattoo. That’s my friend. That’s my inspiration. That’s my muse.

She is loved. So incredibly loved. And I am so incredibly broken. And over the coming years, I will knit myself together with golden thread. And I will write to her. For her. In honor of her. Because she is not forgotten. She will remain.

Love you, Lo. Mean it.