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Dear Freda



Merida, Yucatan, Mexico


Dear Freda,

It is going on five years that we have not spoken. I was overjoyed when you responded to my message last month regarding Billy's death. It was odd to learn of his death on Facebook rather than a call from you.Odd but understandable. His death brought back all of my own memories of Billy. I can still see him in his highchair grinning like the happiest person on earth. Or him scooting across the floor. My last memory of him is of him mowing your lawn and my jealousy and amazement that anyone could drive that mower. I had tried previously but that contraption was too much for me. If I recall I ran screaming from that mini tractor. He was so adept at so many things. And he was pretty much always in a good mood. But when he wasn't, I always liked that he said so and could put on quite a rant.

I want you to know that I miss you too. I always refer to you as my best friend. The first time I referred to you that way, after our break-up, I stopped myself for a moment. I wondered if I had the right to define you that way any longer and I decided I did. No one has been better since and you were the best friend I ever had. So best friend is how you shall remain for me.

I have had a long time to think about what happened and no matter how I hold the glass I come to one conclusion: We grew apart. When I read the letter you left all I could feel was that you were angry and hurt by me but that something in my personality didn't allow you the comfort enough to say it. You had reached The Confederation Bridge with me and you decided not to go back. I understand. I had hoped that long before today one of us would have picked up the phone. I'm picking it up now and I hope you answer. I still know your telephone number. It's the only one I ever memorized.

Our friendships goes back years. We were wee together. No one knows all my secrets but you. And that gives me a warm feeling. I cherish that. I miss our morning calls and you should know that you are the only person on this planet that I can stay on the phone with. You were with me through everything; always at my side. Through college, Blanche, New York, Buffalo, All through the Maritimes digging up black folks to talk to, up to Pokemouche were we dug up a can of worms with Sister Doiron. Writing you victim impact statement. Driving like god knows what angry and mad 200 miles in the fuck you direction, and then stopping for a tea, crying, and driving back 200 miles.These memories are precious.

We are two girls raised with men. Jesus, me with four and you with 6. I think this made us two women ready for a fight. Always having to stand our ground and not be shoved to the back of the line. And maybe I forgot that I didn't have to shove you. And maybe you forgot that I am a rough-tough cream puff. I don't know.

I wonder what you are doing now, and how things are. You look happy in the pictures I see. I think too Freda that there was a part of me that was envious of your life. Envious in the sense that had things been different for me as a child and had I remained on PEI, I might be your neighbour with children of my own. You live a settled life and I don't. I bought a house and I'm settled and all I want to do is move. I envy this thing in you that I could never emulate. And if I never told you this let me say it now: Your strength and inner courage always astounded me. You are the bravest woman I know.

I wrote your obituary. You asked me to, do you remember? It's filled with all the sorts of things that you should hear now.

I hope to hear from you. Take your time. I'm here.

Love,

Moira
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