We know that presence and prioritizing the people we love matters but how do we ‘show up’ when it matters?

I knew there was something amiss with one of the people I love so dearly in my life but it was an unquantifiable feeling. How can I justify the cost of a flight during a busy time in my own life and leave my responsibilities at home to check on her with no proof? I knew, in my heart, this didn’t matter – worst case scenario, I’m wrong about my gut feeling and we just have a bit of fun.

But my intuition was right.

She picked me up from the airport, unshowered in the afternoon – unusual for a woman who presents like royalty when ever she crosses a threshold. We headed to brunch at her late husband’s favorite restaurant and talked about plans for my stay- I had none and didn’t want her to play her usual hostess role. we decide to Netflix and chill with wine and snacks.

Turns out the intimacy of this set up was allowed for some real talk and hard truths as the wine and lack of eye contact or direct questions loosens the tongue and brekas down the walls of politeness. We could both look at the screen while she laid her head in my lap as she confessed to her suicide attempt two weeks prior and the deeper isolation she felt as she determined no one would find her body because if she is not cooking and entertaining for ‘friends’ she doesn’t hear from them. I distract her with my own embarrassing secrets and echo her sentiment to cut ties with the takers while also reaching out on my phone to her local network of real friends she didn’t want to burden with these thoughts. Two amazing women with busy lives and families and careers who I knew would blame themselves if they ever caught wind of the current state of affairs. The ones who were there when she drove her husband twice a day to the hospital for leukemia treatments and then for the subsequent funeral and eventual move from their apartment and into their own houses for a bit of respite surrounded by their own familiar traditions.

Waking up beside her to the sound of her grinding her teeth as her birth country collapsed into chaos via military coup. My ex-husband has plans to take us for lunch at her favorite spot with a smoked old fashioned she has to introduce us to- a remedy for our hangovers, seafood and bourbon. She only takes 5 minutes to get ready and is ready before me – an anomaly for a woman raised in a beauty salon whom  I have known to never show up on time, barefaced. Despite this, the waiter is eager to win her attention with complimentary deserts and apertifs. I start to think the tears in her eyes are turning from sorrow to joy as we walk toward the mall to pick up coffee – an errand she has put off for weeks now as she avoided the outside world.

More Netflix in our pjs as we accommodate food babies with complaints of spoiled decadence. The griding is quieter (or maybe I sleep deeper). The double-edged sword of not being bullied via Facetime by her sister back at home because the internet has been cut while we chat with the younger sister with pride over what a responsible adult she has become since I first met this family 15 years ago, when I showed up in her town and she helped me grieve and recover from a coke habit. we listen to my own child’s (her goddaughter) principal congratulate me on having a socially and academically advanced middle-schooler; the achievements of her namesake light up that internal glow I know so well.

By Day 3, she is ready to make an appearance at a friend’s place to ejoy her visiting mother’s home cooking and laugh with her kids. She is nearly there as we chat about marriage and visas  and families and love while we dip our hands into a shared plate of traditional food. She is up and clearing plates for chai wa ghawa smiling and chatting. We laugh at cat videos and look through magazines of Halloween baking reciepes  at the grocery store checkout – she is making plans for next week to celebrate the holiday with new friends with mutual interests who ask her only for participation in events. she looks at me in mocking shock as I reveal the $5 ‘Indian’ corn is only for decoration while she runs her hands over the textured mini gourds. I can leave tomorrow comfortable with the fact that she has backed away from the precipice for now.