My friend Danza taught me otherwise, a month before her death. It was a warm Friday in March, new cherry blossoms sweetening the air. I sat on the back deck, waiting for our friend Elsie to appear so the three of us, Danza, Elsie and I, could, for one brief interlude, step into the joy of our past high school bubble.
Elsie glided up the back steps in cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless top, looking as if she had stepped straight out of 1969. Even in wedge sandals, I barely reached her shoulder. "How do I prepare myself?" she asked, touching the corner of one eye.
"She’s still Danza," I said. "Just without hair." "Without a doubt." My knees went soft. "I’m so glad you’re here." I walked Elsie to the bedroom, closed the door behind me, and went to the kitchen to give the two of them privacy.
When I returned, they had both been crying. Elsie sat at the edge of the bed, twisting the corner of the duvet between her long fingers. I had brought scented massage cream and a lavender silk scarf.
In high school, we barely wore makeup unless we were on stage, where greasepaint clogged our pores and announced itself days later in embarrassing eruptions across our faces. We were Carole King’s natural women—barefaced, earnest, genuine. Over the years we had graduated to lip color and eyeliner, but the unspoken agreement had never changed: We didn’t perform for each other.
Today’s makeover was our stab at normalcy, our attempt to change reality by altering appearances, the way we’d done so many times as teenagers. If we could bring color back to Danza’s face, I thought, maybe we could look away from the hourglass draining beside us. I’d built 25 years of friendship on the idea that Danza and I never needed to fake anything with each other—that whatever else changed, the truth between us wouldn’t.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
