I arrived to Manila after what certainly felt like forever. My butt had forgotten what it feels like to sit on a plane for over 16 hours. I got to the K.I.M. base and had an email that I never want to see: one from my parents saying only the words “call us when you have a chance.”
“Cori, I have some hard news to tell you. Zack died on Saturday in a skydiving accident. His chute didn’t open. I am so sorry” my mom told me once I finally found a phone. Those words keep ringing in my ears even now, days later, and I still wonder if it’s true.
I am thousands of miles away, in Malaybalay now, grieving the loss of a dear friend. One of the closest guy friends I’ve ever had, someone who cared about me so much, who stood by me even when I had walls up and wouldn’t let him closer. He and I were similar in many ways with our longing for adventure and our inability to ever really settle down. We’d always argue over who was more noncommittal.
What do I do with this loss, this heaviness in my heart for this friend I’ll never get to say goodbye to? What do I do with all of the unknowns of what our friendship really was, of why he died at only 27? What do I do with the care that I received from him, his kindness and warmth? How can this really have happened?
I cry, I grieve, I cringe as I think of how he died, I hurt for his dear family so much. I zone out and imagine his funeral and cry some more. I remember times we spent together and smile if only for a second. I feel the ache in my heart. It lingers and does not rest. It hurts.
I go then and play with the children here who I haven’t seen in nearly a year and a half. I lift up 4 year old Andrew, my boy and the main reason I came back. I tickle him and delight in his giggles and hugs. Glen Mark climbs up the couch and sits next to me, pointing to his books and saying “daa daa” over and over again. Little John Carlo and Mary Joy are two of the sweetest kids to be around with their deep brown eyes and long eyelashes. “Ate, Ate, what’s this? What’s this?” they ask repeatedly as they point to anything they can get their hands on.
I love on the kids, but have found that they are loving me as well. I am letting them. They are a comfort amidst my sorrow and pain. They too greet me with smiles, hugs, and laughs, and I let their warmth soothe my wounded heart. I feel that if I had to be away while this happened, this is the place for me to be. Where there’s not really any pressure but just a place for me to love and be loved, to care and be cared for, in one of the simplest environments I know. It’s where I have time and space to sit with myself, or if I am interrupted it’s only by sweet seven year old Rosalie who comes over and draws in my journal while I hold her in my lap. This, my friends, is therapeutic.
Zack, the words I have for my grief feel so incomplete. I never thought I’d say this, but I thank God for that ridiculous Geological Perspectives class where we met seven years ago. I am so grateful for how you stood by me, cared about me, pursued me, and never relented in asking me to go on adventures with you. I’ll never forget our conversations or how you always made the world a lighter place for me, seeing my burdens that I held so heavily not as road blocks but as just a small part of the bigger picture. You had such a heart for those who are hurting and gave much of yourself to others. You were never satisfied, and I respect how you continually kept your heart alive.
I could go on and on, but the words don’t suffice. I miss you. I don’t know how to say goodbye. But thank you..
