Goodbye, Friend.

The heartbreak of losing a friend.

When they really know you. Not that story of you that so many know or the ones you’ve told. But the part of you behind those stories. The part of you inside. Beneath the masks and before any explanation. Sometimes people see through the veneer to the real you.

It seems rare. And to have that seeing happen with love at the same time is perhaps one of the greatest gifts on this earth. Someone who sees you. Knows you. Knows your faults but looks right through them to the real you. And loves you anyway. That type of friendship or love is so unique and special. There are only so many people in life who can accomplish both. It seems to take an almost magical combination of factors, and when it happens, it is a real gift.

I am blessed to have a few people like that in my life.

I think the word is “real friends” but it is deeper. Maybe it is closer to “soul brothers or sisters” or something.

One of those few recently passed and it is just so painful.

To know you will never see their smile or hear their kind advice or words. That they won’t be there if you text or call (they always were).

It just hurts.

Maybe it feels like a part of you is gone too. Or something.

There just aren’t words sometimes. To say thank you for the gift of their life. To pay tribute to their memory. To honor the gift they gave you simply by being who they were.

There are songs and poems. Sayings about time healing wounds. Life everlasting. etc. etc.

And I guess in some ways those are palliative.

But the truth is sometimes it is just time to say goodbye.

Not the kind of goodbye where you know you really mean “see you again someday”.

No. Sometimes it is really just goodbye.

I don’t want to say it.

And I guess in some ways we “don’t” because we do get to live on with their memory. To live by their example.

A wise Imam recently told the story of a famous philosopher who received an honor and would only accept it if his teacher could get it too. When asked “who is this teacher? what were his books?”

The philosopher answered: “I am his book.”

Perhaps that is the closest we can get to not saying goodbye fully. By living our lives imparted with the lessons they shared, maybe we get to become a part of their legacy or memory or spirit or all of these.

I get that.

But knowing I’ll never see him again hurts.

But I guess that is part of how it goes. The downs come with the ups. The love means the pain is greater.

That knowing care means the goodbye is more meaningful. And real.

And so, my Teacher. Mentor. Friend.

I bid you a sad, loving, goodbye.

I’ll do my very best to make your book a meaningful one.