amberdreams (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amberdreams) wrote2017-09-15 02:10 pm
amberdreams) wrote2017-09-15 02:10 pm
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Rachel
Seven years old and friends.
We played ‘tennis’ in the middle of Rundle Road with bats made of hardboard and squared offcuts of wood that gave us blisters.
We swapped buttons and played Chinese Chequers and fought over the best dressing up dresses. We drew pictures and played Newmarket and accused each other of cheating. We fell out of friends and back again.
We were a team at school, a solid duo against the world. We played at being pickpockets and stole sweets and rubber monsters from the newsagents.
We were the Dotty Detectives with our special code.
We got lost in Sefton Park and broke my Dad’s chisel trying to build a tree-house in the rhododendrons in Sudley in their gardens. We climbed and hid in the hollow tree.
We took your little sisters to the park with your puppy and abandoned them all when a red setter chased us.
We did the messages for your Mum – 20 Embassy, bread and milk. Sometimes we had to walk miles (it felt like) to find that shop on the corner near the park that was open long hours.
I came round yours to watch Beverley Hill Billies and drink Corporation gin.
Twelve and still friends.
At different schools, we had to learn to function without our ‘twin’ during the day, but the evenings were still full of each other.
We played at kissing with your brother Mark and my cousin Clive.
We were separated, our friendship forbidden – you whistled at my window and we talked in secret. You were a bad influence on me and I reciprocated.
We spent hours sitting on my bed, talking and listening to music.
You’d call round and we’d go to the bag wash for your Mum.
You came with us to France, camping. We sat in the tent, terrified, while two storms met overhead, one from the Bay of Biscay, the other from the Pyrenees. My Dad sat on his metal camping chair next to the tent pole laughing at us.
You scared yourself with devilish stories; I scared you with a plaster ‘severed’ finger.
Sometimes we fell out of friends, we’d argue and you were too good at holding onto your anger. I’d miss you terribly.
Twenties and beyond.
I went away; you went away.
We allowed ourselves to grow apart.
We were bad at communicating, I’d write, you didn’t reply; we’d forget Christmas and birthdays.
But then, as now and always, you were here (are here) in my heart.
1960-2017 A life too short, my friend.
Seven years old and friends.
We played ‘tennis’ in the middle of Rundle Road with bats made of hardboard and squared offcuts of wood that gave us blisters.
We swapped buttons and played Chinese Chequers and fought over the best dressing up dresses. We drew pictures and played Newmarket and accused each other of cheating. We fell out of friends and back again.
We were a team at school, a solid duo against the world. We played at being pickpockets and stole sweets and rubber monsters from the newsagents.
We were the Dotty Detectives with our special code.
We got lost in Sefton Park and broke my Dad’s chisel trying to build a tree-house in the rhododendrons in Sudley in their gardens. We climbed and hid in the hollow tree.
We took your little sisters to the park with your puppy and abandoned them all when a red setter chased us.
We did the messages for your Mum – 20 Embassy, bread and milk. Sometimes we had to walk miles (it felt like) to find that shop on the corner near the park that was open long hours.
I came round yours to watch Beverley Hill Billies and drink Corporation gin.
Twelve and still friends.
At different schools, we had to learn to function without our ‘twin’ during the day, but the evenings were still full of each other.
We played at kissing with your brother Mark and my cousin Clive.
We were separated, our friendship forbidden – you whistled at my window and we talked in secret. You were a bad influence on me and I reciprocated.
We spent hours sitting on my bed, talking and listening to music.
You’d call round and we’d go to the bag wash for your Mum.
You came with us to France, camping. We sat in the tent, terrified, while two storms met overhead, one from the Bay of Biscay, the other from the Pyrenees. My Dad sat on his metal camping chair next to the tent pole laughing at us.
You scared yourself with devilish stories; I scared you with a plaster ‘severed’ finger.
Sometimes we fell out of friends, we’d argue and you were too good at holding onto your anger. I’d miss you terribly.
Twenties and beyond.
I went away; you went away.
We allowed ourselves to grow apart.
We were bad at communicating, I’d write, you didn’t reply; we’d forget Christmas and birthdays.
But then, as now and always, you were here (are here) in my heart.
1960-2017 A life too short, my friend.
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*love & hugs*
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All my fondest thoughts and sincerest condolences to you and Rachel's family xx
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This is a beautiful tribute to your friendship with Rachel. I am thinking of you.
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I'm so sorry hon. There really are no words that do this sort of hurt and sorrow justice.
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