A Bitter Parting

Whitney's heart bled as she tried to process what it meant, burying Stefflon. She would never see her again. She would never hear her voice again. There would be no one who could ever replace Stefflon. No one. She immediately felt the need to throw up. To curse Ken. To question the cruelty of life.

She ran to the toilet and buried her face in the toilet. It had been exactly a week since her best friend's death and it was the day of her burial. The realization that it was not a prank started to hit her. So hard like a tsunami. Eating slowly became too much of a hassle over the week and sleeping became too stressful. At those moments, it was easier for her to die than to sleep.

It was hard for her to believe that today would be the very last time she would ever see Stefflon again. Her brain had thought through other possibilities to escape the pain in her heart. But, her eyes saw no visible possibility.

Maybe she is not dead. Maybe she faked it. She could have been in Dubai, the Bahamas, Seychelles, or Maldives living her best life. Anything else has to accept that Stefflon was truly gone. She had been Whitney's whole life; how would she go on living without her best friend? The tears began to sting her eyes again. They streaked down her stiffened cheeks in streams.

She unburied her face from the toilet sit and weakly reached for the flusher before pulling herself to her feet. She peered at her reflection in the large mirror in her bathroom and she had never been gladder for being a black woman. Despite the tears that had kept her up at night, only her eyes were red. Her skin was still perfectly brown. Isn't Melanin wonderful?

"Here we go, Stefflon," she mumbled to herself and left the bathroom. It was the first and only time she ever summed up enough courage to encourage her tuckered-out self.

Since Stefflon's death, she couldn't muster enough strength to cheer herself up. She tried!

A pile of black gowns lay scattered on her bed. She had lost so much weight since Stefflon's death that nothing in her closet seemed to fit anymore and she had not been able to get a new one because her schedule was tight between work and preparations for the funeral. It was indeed an overwhelming tussle. Quite too much for her to bear. But, for Stefflon's sake, she bore it wholeheartedly.

Then it crossed her mind that Stefflon had once gifted her a gown that was two sizes lower. She ran to her closet and took out the gown. Goodness, it had been about a year since Stefflon got her the dress and she had forgotten about it altogether.

She removed it from the box and quickly tried it on. It was a perfect size. Stefflon had her back, even in death. Hadn't she always been an angel?

The alarm beeped. It was 7 am and the funeral was in two hours and at a location that was forty-five minutes drive away.

Whitney rushed over a bath, got dressed, and sat on her vanity that she had requested to be custom-made black to march her curtains and bed covers. Even to match her dark mood and muffled heart.

She stared at her disheveled afro in the vanity's mirror, it looked so unkept—thanks to her restlessness the night before. She took two deep breaths to prepare herself for the struggle she was about to embark on. To be honest, having 4c hair had its disadvantages when it was not straightened, a broken comb and sore arms were one of them. She had no reason to look good. Not on Stefflon's burial but even Stefflon herself would hee rebuked her if she appeared unkempt and disheveled.

Thirty minutes. That was what it took for her to pack her afro into a clean bun.

She took a pink bracelet with an infinity symbol Stefflon gave her when they were fifteen and left for the funeral. Stefflon was not religious so there were no prayers, priests, or anything, just a couple of friends and family members who truly cared about her and what she represented in their various lives.

***

It felt like death. Like an apocalypse.

For the first time, Whitney hated black. Everyone in the room where Stefflon was laid for visitation was dressed in black and all the faces were ebbed with sadness. She clutched her purse and slowly walked inside, her heart thudding audibly and her eyes whispering hot tears.

Stefflon's mother was in front of the white and gold casket. Whitney had felt guilty after Ken left, she realized she had been too harsh on him and ended up choosing the one he wanted. He practically won.

Stefflon's mum must have heard her footsteps as she approached, she turned to Whitney, same blue eyes as Stefflon and the same blonde hair. Her face was wet with tears, she looked leaner than Whitney had ever seen her. "Whit." She threw herself on Whitney for a warm hug. "It is so good to see you." Her voice was shaky, cracking, and teary. She had been crying for so long. Whitney could bother thinking about how long.

"It is so good to see you too, Mrs. Grey," she replied, fighting to hold back her tears. "How are you doing?" She instantly regretted asking the question. It was obvious she was not well. Nothing was well.

Mrs. Grey pulled back. Her blue eyes which were now reddish threatened tears. It was evident she was not okay. There was no way she could be okay when her only daughter was about to be buried...to be abandoned six feet below the earth and never to be seen by her mother or anyone else who cared. To Whitney, that included everybody else except Ken.

Mrs. Grey sniffled and forced a sad smile through her tears. "I suppose I will survive." She took Whitney's hand and squeezed it. "How are you?"

Shit! There goes the question. Whitney was not okay. She was sad. She was in denial. She was questioning God. She was on the verge of breaking down in tears.

"I am okay." Not okay. "I suppose I will survive this too."