Tomorrow is my 25th birthday. I will be spending it at the funeral of a wonderful, beautiful friend who should still be alive but isn’t because the universe can be a real bitch when it wants to.

The last time I saw her, exactly three weeks ago at her 30th birthday party, she was wearing a sequined shirt which I absolutely loved (insert inappropriate inner drag queen remark here, ’cause you know we did) and telling me about her forthcoming vacation. “You jerk!” I only half-teased, jealous of Costa Rican sun vacations with me left behind in cold Toronto. This is the last interaction we had, if I remember correctly. But who knows what we remember.

I wish I believed in any the things that might bring me some measure of comfort right now, but I don’t. Instead, I can only promise to do right by her memory. That’s better, anyway.