Seeing as I come from a family of procrastinators, it should come as no surprise to you that we are behind schedule regarding Christmas decorations, shopping, etc... Today we got around to decorating our Christmas tree. We are quite proud of our tree, which we consider to be one of the prettiest in Cairo every year. Of course, the six and a half of you who've been to my house concur. You have no choice since I've spent the greater part of my life bribing you all with the wonders of my mother's kitchen.
We hope to get the rest of the house done up before December 25th. The likelihood of that happening wholly depends on - well, on whether we ever bother to get off our bottoms, really. Even my mother, who is the personification of family traditions and Christmas spirit, isn't too into it this year. I think we're all getting too old, too complacent and too fat to climb up all five rungs of the ladder to place the mistletoe above the door. Oh well, it's not like there's anyone to put it up for anyway.
I've always had a bit of a problem with this time of year, because I tend to be a muddled jumble of conflicting thoughts and (whisper it) emotions. Mid-December ruffles my inner-feathers. It serves as an annual reminder of my greatest teenage regret. It just reminds me of how self-centred, jealous, and self-deprecating I was at 14. It reminds me of how superficial we all were. How little we knew and yet how much we thought we did.
Whenever the winds blows in with the first nips of stinging nettle air, whenever the Christmas lights go up at home, whenever the fleece socks are pulled over my numb toes, I think of someone I hurt all those years ago. Someone I greatly admired, greatly envied, and did a great injustice to.
I knew her for as long as I could remember. She was in the Yellow class of my year, I was in Red. We grew up semi-friends, connected by our shared birthday; she was a year older and thereby the wiser one. The one I always looked up to, the one who was always so much more grown up than I could ever be.
She was always a free spirit. So much more free than we all were; at least that's how she seemed to me. She must have had her own share of insecurities and angst, but I never saw it. All I saw was a wild head of curly brown hair crowning a popular, friendly and achingly cool head. She was friends with everyone, she dated the cutest boys in our year. And yet she was always the mysterious one. The one who you always wanted to find out more about, even when you were her close friend.
We shared a birthday. That made me somewhat cool by association. Looking back, I realize I was well-liked by everyone at school. The bigger kids knew me, the little kids weren't afraid of me. I was even popular, in the way a Betty Cooper type can be. But I never saw any of that. I saw my unibrow. I saw my flat chest. I saw the fact that I was the brainy one who liked to read but didn't have the coolest sneakers because I didn't realize those were the cool ones when I was in the store. I never picked up on the trends as a kid. I just wore what my mother bought me. All I was good at was other people's homework, other people's favours, and being the butt of other people's jokes. The boys never saw me. I was just another one of the guys. The girls never looked up to me. I was just in their group because I could write seven different book reviews without the teacher noticing they were all by the same person.
I couldn't see the fact that people genuinely liked me. I still have some of that self-deprecation left over. But I'm a lot better about it now. I have Dixie and Daisy to thank for that. And my eyebrow lady.
On my 14th and her 15th birthday, I got a call from a mutual friend inviting me to her surprise birthday party. I also got an earful of gossip about another friend who apparently wanted to pick a bone or two with the newly-15-year-old girl. Being 14 and especially naive, I got my hopes up. I thought the surprise was for me, too. They would never tell me that it was for me, too. That would just ruin the surprise.
So I go. And I'm crushed when there is no singing of my name, too. When there is no second cake, and as usual, it's all about her. No one even wished me a happy birthday that day. No one remembered.
We share a ride home with her two best friends, who are also good friends of mine. I stirred up quite a bit of trouble and told them about what I'd been told on the phone earlier that day, about how she was going to get it good from the other girl. This caused a big argument with the other girl, of course. And I got the verbal whooping from her at school the next day. She was the school me3alima (head Mean Girl, for lack of a better word) and we shared the bus to school. I ratted out the other friend who'd told me. I was humiliated in front of the class. I deserved it. But I never forgave her for ratting me out to the Mean Girl. We had a strained relationship after that, the shared birthday girl and I. She never stopped being nice to me, but she never really spoke much to me either.
11 months later, in mid-December during our Christmas break, she died. Her family's yacht went up in flames while they all slept.
I never forgave myself for not letting things go. For never apologizing, and never patching things up. It may seem silly now, still feeling guilty over a childish spat. But I still feel like an ass, every year. I let her down. I let myself down. She remained the better person. I never knew the date of her death, nor did I go to the wake because I was in London that Christmas.
Our birthday was always the first day back to school after Christmas break. I came back to a horrible birthday filled with special assemblies and memory books and tears. They didn't remember my birthday that year, either. They planted a tree in her honour instead. She was supposed to turn 16 that year. Sweet 16. So many milestones, so much life left to live.
It's funny how I think about her now instead of on our birthday. I guess I still want to keep that as mine. Make up for the ones I lost to her. Still selfish, even with the guilt.
I can think of others I've hurt much more than I hurt her. But she's the one who's struck me hardest because I can never take it back. I can't make amends.
I try to think of her in a positive light. I try to think happy thoughts of her often. I want her to know that she will not be forgotten. She will forever be cool and zany Shamzy.
Posts
1 comment:
You should let go. You were a kid back then and kids make mistakes. They are sometimes immature and can't make proper judgment.
I understand that you're upset for not patching things up with her, but it seems you are making yourself feel too guilty about something that's out of your hands.
I suggest you do something nice for her, something that she would have loved. I believe that she will be aware of what you did and understand that you are apologizing. (some spiritual mambo jumbo)
Post a Comment