It’s a wound that I don’t want to have heal, and, yet, it is healing. The death of a friend, a good friend, a best friend, at such a young age, is something that I never thought I’d forget to remember.
I missed the ninth anniversary of Nash’s death on February 1. I was so caught up in my own life, in meeting deadlines, in career planning, in the transition that I’m preparing for, that I didn’t even think to remember to take a moment and maybe even say a prayer on his behalf.
I remember thinking about it a few weeks ago, when life was moving a little slower. I remember checking the date and planning my evening, making sure that I’d have time to go to mosque on the Wednesday evening. By the time the Wednesday evening arrived, my plans had changed and when I got home in the evening, I sat down on my chair and fell asleep. My sister brought it up with me on the Thursday.
I do feel guilty for forgetting.
I tried to make amends with myself by braving the Friday evening crowd at the mosque, to take a few minutes to remember Nash and to say a prayer on his behalf.
It’s a strange thing to do, to say a prayer as a nonbeliever on behalf of someone who did believe. If anybody knows about the afterlife, it’s him. I figure it can’t hurt to temporarily put my trust in something that nobody understands for a chance at a soul’s salvation.
It’s more than the prayer, though. It’s about a ritual that I’ve developed over the last nine years to cope with the deaths of people who I loved. If the ritual ends then the healing is over.