Requiem

This is a brief exploration of grief.

A very close friend from my time in Cairo was on the Ethiopian Airline flight that crashed on Sunday.

I’m still looking for words, but they’re a bit hard to come by, despite having spent a lot of time on the phone with people across the globe in the past few days.

Day 1: I’m visiting beautiful Bordeaux with a fellow student. We’ve just had Thai food for lunch, and have been wine tasting all weekend. I’ve seen the news of the crash, and even though I know Annie was heading to a UN training in Nairobi, it never crosses my mind that she was on that flight. A friend calls on Whatsapp, and I uncharacteristically hear and answer it. He’s in tears, and I don’t understand him at first. Then comes utter shock. Numbness. Disbelief. The tiniest bit of hope that somehow she missed the flight or was delayed. A couple hours later, confirmation comes that she was on board. I still have to make the drive back to Biarritz. Focusing on the details of driving, refilling and returning the rental car helps keep me grounded. When I get home, I answer phone calls and messages on autopilot. Sleep comes easily. Grief and shock is exhausting.

Day 2: I wake up with my hands shaking. They shake throughout the day. I go for a run on the beach and break down at the halfway point. I’m relieved that it’s sinking in, but also wish for the numbness. I get in touch with the family. What do I say that can ever be enough to summarize such a friendship? What can I say that will help the family? Friends in Geneva tell me about the moment of silence and forward me statements from the UN. Another friend in Rwanda tells me about the UN flags flying at half mast in Kigali. They’re extra significant today.

Day 3: There’s a brief moment between sleep and waking where I am filled with dread. Upon waking, there is instant awareness of loss. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I can’t run today, or I’ll be sick. I go to French class as normal. But today is not normal. Tears come when I read her name is in the newspaper naming those lost. There’s no coming back from the stark black and white print. Friends send old photos to compile for the family. I’m watching my phone constantly to make sure that friends are checking in.

So many lives have been lost. So many more impacted. The humanitarian world is grieving right now. Of the 158 fatalities, 21 were UN affiliated and others onboard were with NGOs working in the region.

My heart is sore today, Annie. Your passing hasn’t left a hole, but the place our friendship occupies is awfully painful. Fortunately, all of my memories of you feature laughter, and very often red velvet cake, shoes and carpets. Dinner parties at my house. Visits to see friends. Late night movies. Long chats over tea. A constant connection across the globe. And now, a grief-laden smile as I remember the good but feel the bad.

I already miss you.