Friday

The day came cold and dark.
An old friend recently told me that her grandma used to say that Good Friday was so holy that not even the grass was growing on that day.

The 18th of April was the birthday of my dearest friend. We were one day and one year and one ocean and a continent apart, but still met and talked over the phone and wrote long letters. And travelled together whenever we could. She died much too early, in her fifties. It is almost forty years ago, yet it is like yesterday.