Farewell My Friend

There is a strange trick that death plays on the living: it turns what we knew into something we didn’t truly understand until it was too late. Of course the person who dies is no longer here. That is obvious—until it is suddenly, irrevocably true.

When I heard my friend had left this world, my first instinct was not grief but urgency. I reached for my phone with the familiar reflex of modern intimacy, wanting to text him, to say, I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were sick. I didn’t know you were leaving. If I had known, I would have insisted—on meeting, on talking, on listening. I would have shown up. I thought there would be more time.

But the mind keeps tripping over that truth like a loose stone on a familiar path: he is not there anymore. Not at the other end of a text. Not behind a ringing phone. Not waiting for me to finally circle back when life “settled down.” There is no place now where my reaching can land.

And still, habit has its own stubborn pulse. I feel him as I have often felt him—in a thought that rises unannounced, in the quiet space where friendship used to live—so I want to text him anyway. We must get together, I want to say. No excuses this time. Except now the only excuse is the one that admits no negotiation: he is no longer here.

The words I regret are painfully ordinary. I’ll let you know when I have time. Can’t wait to catch up. Has it really been that long? They are the phrases of people who believe, without realizing it, that the future is a renewable resource.

Where are you, my friend? I want to scream questions that have nowhere to land. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know. I could have been by your side. I’m sorry—I should have known. These sentences circle like birds looking for a place to rest, but there is no branch left for them.

So what do we do with regrets that have no recipient? With words that cannot be delivered, thoughts that refuse to resolve, guilt that arrives dressed as hindsight? I tell myself, again and again, I didn’t know. And it’s true. But truth does not always bring relief.

I find myself still wanting to text him just to say, I was thinking of you. Just to pretend, for one more second, that there might be a “soon” left between us.

But there isn’t.

Death remains what it has always been: a mystery that reveals itself only when it is our turn to step through it. For those who leave, perhaps the rearranging is simple. For those who remain, it is not. We must reorganize our inner furniture around an absence. We must learn how to carry love without a destination.

I once promised myself that I would never miss another leaving. That I would show up, sit beside the bed, hold the hand, help ease the fear. And mostly, I have kept that promise. But not this time. This time life distracted me with its convincing illusions of urgency and importance. This time I failed.

And so the lesson sharpens, not as punishment but as invitation: showing up is not meant to be reserved for endings. It is meant for living. Not only so we can avoid regret, but because presence itself is the true currency of a meaningful life. These ordinary moments—the coffee shared, the walk taken, the conversation that wanders without purpose—are the real gems. They are what make this brief, luminous existence worth inhabiting.

Let us show up while there is still a here. Let us be present while there is still a now. Let us remember, gently but firmly, that sometimes there is no tomorrow waiting to catch us up.

I will miss my friend. I miss him already in ways I cannot explain. And yet I trust—without needing to name it—that he is held in a peace more beautiful than anything this world could offer.

Until next time, my friend. Somewhere beyond words, I know you hear me.

Hari Om Tat Sat