TO BEA

Bea died yesterday,
the 5th of July.
She was my mother's friend of many decades.
Although we were a generation apart,
she and I were born on the same day —
December 27th.
Years ago we began our little ritual
of calling one another
on the morning of our shared day.
Though neither of us is superstitious,
and in fact, we are both rational to a fault,
we each felt something magical
in sharing this cosmic coincidence.
We nourished the bond it created between us.
Allowed it to become a premise:
we were special to each other.
Our mutual affection was unconditional.
We didn't judge.
We didn't have any expectations.
Probably didn't even know one another very well.
We didn't need to.
We were born on the same day, you see.
That was enough.
Today,
as I try to grasp the reality that Bea is dead,
my mind seeks an affirmation
of our connection.
A continuation of our special relationship.
And I find it.
I have decided that in some year
in the distant and mysterious future,
as surely as I was born on the 27th of December,
just like Bea,
I will die on the 5th of July.


© Ellen Azorin