My friend Jolene

It felt like just yesterday we were watching the sun cautiously emerge from its sleep. The sun’s soft lambent light reflected flecks of coral on the face of the lake in front of us and the birds started to sing with their mellifluous voices. A pleasant chill clung to the air around us and wispy cirrus clouds floated along lazily. The grass we were sitting on was threaded with beads of water. This made them mellow and they drooped over, forming makeshift arches for the tiny insects going about their busy day. 

These were the last memories I would ever have with my friend Jolene. 

Jolene and I met on an early spring morning. I had decided to be spontaneous and take a walk in the park. It was beautiful. Surrounding me was reconciliation; between animals and their homes, flowers and the dreary scenery and between the trees and their leaves. Nature seemed to be a separate entity of a different world that ignored humans as it woke from its sleep. Moreover, faint traces of snow left behind thawed as the sun emerged cautiously and shone, which hinted at the end of the season home to death. 

As I wandered ahead, I noticed a person. I had assumed that the park was vacant, there were no signs of human life up until now. There was a girl who looked to be around my age, 16 and she was painting. I had no intention of interacting with her; I was too shy for that, but then I saw her painting. She was painting one of the trees in front of the lake, pressing each stroke down on the canvas with meticulous care. It was not entirely realistic, the colour palette used was odd in a way, the tree seemed as if it belonged in an alternate reality. The tree consisted of the colour lavender and a vibrant yellow that meandered seamlessly, one colour refusing to diminish the value of the other. The squirrel peacefully perched on top of the tree was painted with a pastel pink and a deep blue. It was so realistic in the way it was painted, but there was a vivaciousness to it. I liked how it defied the conventional definition of a perfect art piece, and admired how it dared to stray away from the norm. I was of the firm belief that an artist’s work is indicative of who they are as a person, and because of this, I felt compelled to talk to her. 

I shyly complimented her work, not knowing how she would react. Would she have felt upset that I disrupted her work? Would she get mad at me for halting her train of thought? Her reaction was far from what I feared. She gave me the widest smile and started talking about her painting with fervour. 

“I decided to come to the park today; I’ve been trying to get out of the house and paint in the fresh air. My mom, who’s also an artist, by the way, says that the outdoors is where she’s painted some of her best works. I wanted to try it out for myself and honestly, I think I agree…” she rambled. I just sat on the lush grass and listened to her. I could have listened to her for hours; she seemed to radiate a free-spirited and captivating energy found in very few people. I found myself conversing with her, responding to her, laughing with her. Every interaction came so easily. 

Her name was Jolene. This was a name that in the future months to come, would bring me a variety of overwhelming emotions, such as joy and an indescribable sadness. 

She continued to add the final touches to her painting, stroking in the fur of the squirrel and placing lines on the bark of the tree to make it seem “violently old with age and wisdom”, as Jolene had said. When she was finished, she sighed with contentment and said, “I think mom would like this piece, I can’t wait to show her.” Jolene paused, looking at me, and added: “I would have given this painting to you, you know because giving things to my friends is the best thing ever, but I promise I’ll have something even better for you next time. I always keep my promises. Wait, you’re right, I don’t have your number, can you give it to me? Oh, I won’t remember that just write it on my arm while I pack my things up.” 

I did as she asked, and Jolene smiled at me brightly. 

“I need to go now. Remember to message me okay? Promise?” 

I promised. She climbed on her cycle, placing the petite square canvas in the small, white wicker basket at the front of her bike. Then, she sped off, making sure to wave at me for as long as she could before she disappeared into the morning. 

We were in constant communication from that day onwards. The next time Jolene and I met was in a cafe. It was another morning, around 8 am. She had wanted to meet me at 10 pm, but I had vehemently protested against it, delving into the innumerable benefits of starting your day off early. Jolene eventually agreed, but it was after many persistent attempts on my part.

 I had arrived at the cafe punctually and sat waiting for her at a small table in the corner of the cafe, bustling with people from all walks of life. I liked to observe all of these people going about their day, and conceive stories about their lives. Just like Jolene had an affinity for art, I possessed one for writing. I was in the midst of constructing a story about the elderly man with a welcoming smile and a wrinkled face who sat on the table in front of me; how he had been naturally inclined towards acting, but his parents disapproved and forced him to enter the world of intense academia. As I was embellishing this plot in my head, Jolene came rushing in, her curly hair unruly and her eyes bright with excitement. She made her way to me and took a seat. 

Jolene’s face turned apologetic, and she started to explain her late arrival to me. “Wait, how late am I? 30 minutes, really? Oh, I’m so sorry, I actually was on time and would have reached at 8, but then I saw these cosy clapboard houses with their picturesque gardens. I just had to draw them. I really hope you don’t mind.” 

She concluded this apprehensively, then stared at me. I watched her for a moment before I burst into laughter. Jolene looked taken aback but joined me. I smiled at her fondly, explaining how I understood an artist’s impulsive disposition and then urged her to order something to eat. When we had finished at the cafe, we walked outside and began strolling around the area. We visited many quaint shops on cobblestoned streets and enjoyed ourselves immensely. We entered old shops, like the bookstore home to classics with faded covers and thick pages with annotations from previous owners hastily crammed into the margins. We also went to a store with trinkets of a whimsical, unique nature and admired them for what seemed like hours. As we were parting ways and the sun was retiring for the day, Jolene pulled out a canvas from her bag. It had a violet ribbon wrapped around it, twisted into a bow. It was a painting consisting solely of shades of purple. It was a smaller version of her painting in the park, but with some differences. The tree had fountain pens dangling from its branches, and books lay nestled in between the grass, with the squirrel perched on top of one waving at me. I loved it. Jolene had remembered that my favourite colour was violet and after the rush of gratitude I suddenly realized I had nothing to give her in return. When I expressed my regret over this, Jolene hugged me, saying I was ridiculous and how discovering this new place and spending the day with me was more than enough. When I was walking home, I couldn’t help thinking of how fortunate I was to have met someone so full of compassion and love for others like Jolene. This day, just like every other day I spent with her was magical and unforgettable. I will forever be thankful for each of these days. 

We continued to meet with each other for a few months at varied locations. Jolene would never fail to bring me a gift, but it wasn’t always art. Sometimes it was miscellaneous objects that reminded her of me, like a mug with a frog flying a bright red kite on it. Once, she gave me a friendship bracelet she had made. “I spent hours on this, making one for you. Now I’m going to teach you how to make one and maybe somebody could make one for me? I mean, friendship bracelets always come in pairs…” she had said, with a smile audible in her voice. I loved how fun Jolene would make things. She would always urge me to try something new and there was never a boring moment with her. I have never met anybody else who made me grow as much Jolene did. I miss her terribly. 

The last time I ever saw Jolene was at the park we first met at. Her 17th birthday was coming up soon, and her family wanted to take her to a cabin in the woods to celebrate. The day before she left, she suggested we meet at the park to watch the sunset. I eagerly accepted and impatiently waited until that time came. When my alarm woke me up at 4 am, I hurriedly got ready in a drowsy haze and walked to the park, which wasn’t far from my house. The chill in the air refreshed me and I got lost in a labyrinth of my thoughts as I walked. Before I knew it, I was at the part of the park that overlooks a lake. To my surprise, Jolene was already standing there. Mentally, I was grinning. Maybe my habit of being punctual had rubbed off on her. She had laid out a large, fluffy blanket for us to warm ourselves in. I had complained about how the blanket would get dirty, but she shrugged, affectionately talking about my rigid ways. I did relent and laid down on the blanket with her. Oh, that morning was lovely. We had a meaningful talk about life, our purpose in it, our future ambitions, our critiques of the world and a discussion of all the flaws present in humanity. Jolene, in sharp contrast to my serious self, cracked jokes throughout. Not one of them failed to make me laugh. 

Before we knew it, the sun had started to wake, ready to rejuvenate the dead of the early morning. We stared at the lake, speckled with the sun’s coral light and observed how the water seemed to shimmer ethereally. Eventually, we fell silent. I started scribbling in my notebook, inundated with new ideas and Jolene pulled out her sketchbook bulging with masterpieces and started to draw. Being in each other's company quietly was just as pleasant as conversing with one another. I felt like I knew her so well, it was as though her soul had fused with mine. The birds who had woken with the sun serenaded us with their honeyed voices. The pastel-hued flowers seemed to dance for us, swaying softly with the wind. We revelled in nature’s beauty for what seemed like an eternity. Jolene was the one to break the silence by tearing out a page of her notebook and handing it to me. She had been sketching me, sat on her fuzzy blanket, furiously writing. She had managed to capture the slant of my eyebrows, which were furrowed in deep concentration and the shape of my hands, that had been clutching a pen. On it, she had written in her frenzied cursive: ‘To the best girl in the world, Mila.’ This time, I had a gift to give her. My entire notebook, to make up for all the gifts Jolene had ever given me. Jolene had begged to read some of what I had written in this notebook and I was finally letting her. I had always intended to give it to her, but I wanted to finish it and ensure that it was just right. “Happy birthday Jolene,” I said. 

Soon after that, she told me she had to go and pack for her trip. Before we started to walk towards the entrance of the park, she pulled out a small knife and seeing my alarmed face, laughed. “I just want us to carve our names on this tree, don’t be scared.  Remember, this was the tree I painted all those days ago when we first met…” We ended up carving only our initials, carving our whole names seemed like a very arduous undertaking. Afterwards, Jolene and I made our way to the park’s entrance. Before she left, Jolene hugged me and whispered, “I have so many things planned out for us to do when I get back. Promise me you won’t miss me.” Jolene had said that last part jokingly and I replied “Promise.” But oh Jolene, I had to break it. 

"Promise" was the last thing I ever said to Jolene. I would never see her again because she died on that trip. Recounting the story of her death is making tears uncontrollably fall down my face and I haven’t even started yet. After all these years, the pain never got better. 

Jolene was daring, she liked to explore new things and stray away from normalcy. These were qualities I adored about her, but it was what ultimately killed her. She would go on extended walks far away from the cabin she was staying at. She found this dilapidated bridge of rotting wooden planks suspended over a deep body of water. Jolene was enamoured with it for some incomprehensible reason. One day, she decided to cross that bridge, an action so careless, so easily avoidable. Oh, Jolene, why did you do it? It collapsed under her weight and she fell. It aches me to imagine the terror that permeated Jolene’s whole being as she plunged into the water. She had never learnt how to swim, she told me she had always been too busy for it. And Jolene drowned, my god she drowned. 

I was in my room when a knock came from outside the house. My mom answered it, and came into my look, with concern etched in her face’s features. “Mila, Jolene’s mother is here.” It was at this point I knew something was wrong. Utterly wrong. But my naive self let me believe that everything would be alright and that nothing truly bad had happened. Jolene’s mother was struggling to maintain a calm composure but when she saw me, she crumbled. She recounted the whole story to me through heavy sobs that shook her whole body. My mother stood heartbroken at this news, hearing how Jolene lost her life brought her to tears. I could not process this information, my heart screamed and cried, it longed to take action and do something but my body was frozen. It failed to respond. 

Loss is an interesting word to consider. Everyone crosses paths with it differently. The loss of Jolene engulfed me, consumed me. Pain surged through my being and drowned me, just like the unforgiving, murky water had done to Jolene. There was no feeling for days, life became colourless and dull, and grief shrouded my being. I found myself lying in bed all day, barely being able to function normally, I failed to sleep at night, every time I closed my eyes I saw Jolene, I heard her laugh, I remembered her words. I missed her. 

One night, sleep-deprived and delirious, I decided to go to the park. I had hoped it would bring me the ‘closure’ everybody spoke of. I yearned to find it, to console this ache within me and stop perpetuating sorrow. I stumbled out of my house at 2 am and I didn’t even have to think about where to go, my mind knew. The park didn’t resemble the faint memory I had of it, or maybe it was my warped perception that was responsible for this. The trees were now aged, with sparse leaves, clinging for dear life on the frail branches. A mist was present in the sky and the scenery around the park, making even the most lively of things seem pallid. The flowers, once surely splendid, drooped and their petals were wrinkled and dried. 

I made my way to the lake. My eyes filled with tears when I saw our names carved into the textured bark of the tree and I remembered everything she wanted to do for this world she said she was blessed to be in. I then saw the lake, now covered with the moon’s reflection. I found myself thinking of Jolene and how she would want me to handle this. She would never have tolerated the way I was currently dealing with her loss. I smiled slightly at the thought of her cross expression, and for the first time in days, gazing at the lake, I was at peace.