I’m not a fun friend

I am not a fun friend.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to laugh. I love to play.

But I don’t know how to do small talk. I don’t know how to act at parties. I can’t stay up late, anyway.

I know how to listen. I know how to ask the question that lets you process what you’re going through. I show up. I bring you food. I get you out for a walk and make sure you take your medicine. (Fuck cancer.) I play with your kids so you can pack for your trip. “I’m going to the store, do you need anything?”

I share what I’m struggling with because if it’s on my mind and on my heart it’s gonna be on the table, because I don’t know how to mask, and if you’re my friend, I don’t want to mask with you.

Yes I can talk about the weather, and what we’re reading, and what we’re cooking. Please, I love the things that make up our days. I’d love a taste of what you made.

But pretty soon we’re also talking about the fact that lately, when I brush my daughter’s hair, I hold my breath, wondering if this will be the last time she wants me to do it for her.

Pretty soon, we’re talking about the fact that this morning tears fell down your cheeks while you spread peanut butter on white bread because two things are true — you wish your child were a better eater and you thank god you’re safe and healthy and this is your concern.

Pretty soon we’re talking about feeling overwhelmed and helpless with everything going on and that we want to blow it all up, but our very role comes down to holding it together. “Does that make me a bad mom?” We telepathize the question, and together shake it away.

I’m not a fun friend. But I’ll bring the brownies, and the heart that’s here to laugh or cry with you. Or both. Pretty much always both.

XOXO

Erika