We buried Christine on an overcast day.
I didn’t watch as they lowered the body into the grave; I distracted myself by talking with our friend Lana.
It had started to pour that October day the same way it did on September 19 when she died. But then the rains stopped and the sun peeked out, not in a harsh way, but just enough to provide a bit of warmth for that cold feeling inside.
I don’t recall the point when I first met Christine; that has been lost to time that has also robbed me of some other more precious memories. But it was prior to 1977 while we were at the Eagle Hall Primary School that Christine and I began our lifelong connection that would endure the 1970s, the 1980s, the 1990s and stretch from one millennium to the next.
I watched as they wheeled my friend to the top of the church and that sad final organ prelude permeated the sanctuary, punctuated by the sobs of her family and loved ones.
We had roamed Eagle Hall Primary and its surroundings, especially Upper Goodland where Christine lived, during which I discovered her mother Pearl’s pudding and souse and sweetbread.
Years later, Pearl would be still generously sending them my way.
Christine and I could find a joke in almost anything and had a common delight in seeing the boys get a belting from teacher. We thought it a just reward for all those times they pulled our hair or hit us and took off with the hope that we would give chase.
By 1978 we were established best friends and when the Common Entrance results came back, for one dreadful moment we thought we were about to be separated.
Happy
When I asked her where she was going, she spun the question back my way and I said, “No, you first,” and then she “no, you first”. Eventually she said “Alexand…” and before she could finish, I said “me too”.
At that point in 1978 the two happiest children in the world were me and Christine.
It was a memorable first day at our new school and one which we spent decades later recalling and falling into a laughing fit, as each time it vividly brought back to mind a particular incident. Some of our extremely private memories are now also to die, for they cannot be revived with the term, “remember when . . .”.
At school we embraced other friends as we became a link for a little group which included Lana, Valencia, Sonia, Jackie, Jennifer, Gail and Maria and tested “Mrs Straughn’s” every maternal instinct.
But as we grew, Christine spent more time with Kathy and Joycelyn while I was drawn more towards the other group. For most, that would have spelt doom but our friendship was secured. As tiny and immature as we were, we had already found a way to make a friendship last. Only death could break the bond.
After graduation we still checked in with each other by telephone or the occasional visit, since we did not live far apart and I had that open food invitation from Pearl. By now we had transformed from ponytail little girls to teenagers on our way to womanhood.
Godson
Then a wonderful thing happened. Christine became pregnant and we both knew instinctively that Keimar was to be my godson. From the time of his birth to the moment Christine closed her eyes, she remained immensely proud of her son.
Honourable and decent Keimar fully appreciated the value of maintaining a good reputation and a respectful manner as instilled by his mother.
Over the years our conversations matured from the giggly incidents to empathising with those who had done wrong and were attempting to correct it. We marvelled at how we benefited from someone’s goodwill.
There were points in Christine’s life where personal tragedy struck with greater force than it did mine. Still, she remained undaunted.
When Christine was hospitalised following an illness, one of the memories she treasured was the evening that all the little boys and young men from the district took time to visit her.
Upon the death and funeral of Keimar’s father, when it was natural for me to be Christine’s comforter, I received a handwritten poem from her – poetry was one of her passions. For 15 years I’ve kept that two-stanza-long ode to our friendship that concluded, “Thank you for being my friend” in her crisp penmanship.
It was an honest expression, for we’d reached a stage where she didn’t judge me and I didn’t judge her. We accepted each other and spoke frankly. We landed in the era of defriending, unfriending or blocking but it meant nothing to our genuine relationship.
Now I was at her funeral and even though I had suggested it, as And Can It Be was sung I couldn’t compose myself enough to join in.
We were to grow old, be grandmothers, be mischievous the same girlish way we did back in the 1970s and beyond; telling the same old jokes and laughing as though they were new. We were to have each other to rely on, attend reunions and exit life’s stage as tired but contented seniors.
I continued to talk to Lana as they covered the grave, as family and friends placed their wreaths atop the fresh mound and the last strains of In the Sweet By And By floated across the cemetery yard.
As the crowd thinned, my last act regarding my friend’s mortal remains was to firmly fix a bunch of our award-winning ginger lilies on the grave knowing I will never return there. My Christianity tells me she is not there and so does journalism.
The year 2014 – like 2001, 2010 and 2013 – has taken a bit of my life’s experience and while people speak of closure, the only real closure will be our own deaths when we feel and think no more.
• Antoinette Connell is a News Editor. Email antoinetteconnell@nationnews.com.