taking a breath

The last words she spoke to me were words of anger. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing in response. I never will.
When I learned of her death today, I relayed the news matter-of-factly to my husband. “I’ve wondered if this would happen,” I added. I continued moving through the motions of the day, assuming, I think, that I had no reason to be sad about the loss of a person I had already lost years ago. But you don’t lose 25 years of friendship just because 2 recent years have been lacking the same. I began to realize this as I swam. The waves washed over me accordingly, and I began to whisper/gasp out the thought “breathe” with each stroke, speaking the words to her. It was she was who begged me, while bumming at the pool one afternoon 6 years back, to teach her how to breathe while swimming. I dutifully donned my swimming instructor cap [no pun intended], and began the lesson. Instead of watching attentively, she proceeded to grab her camera and photograph my face as I passed her mid-stroke. By the time I had finished my first two demonstration laps and had emerged to explain the mechanics step by step, in detail, she was doubled over in hysteric laughter. I stared at her confused while she attempted to explain. In between fits, she gave up and pointed me towards the pictures. “Your face,” she sputtered. “You have no idea how funny you look when you’re opening your mouth like that . . .” She lost it to her laughter once more, while I furrowed my brow in my best not-amused expression.
We gave up swim-breath lessons after that day. But I still think of her when I’m taking those breaths in the water.
This afternoon I cried instead of laughing, though. I breathed out my “Breathe!” prayers. I waded in the waters of my sorrow.
I mourned for my friend.
I mourn for my friend.
I will mourn for my friend . . .