This past Sunday, I attended the memorial service of my late friend. Even now, that sentence feels foreign. If you had asked me 10 years ago whether this would be my reality, I would’ve laughed. I never imagined a future that involved burying childhood friends.
Summers haven’t been kind to me. For the past eight years, the season has brought dread instead of warmth. Each year, I brace myself for bad news, knowing the pattern all too well. Here in North Carolina, the heat and humidity are awful, dragging on until late September—if we’re lucky. But my discomfort with summer isn’t just about the weather; it’s the grief that comes with it.
Growing up, I had Cris and Sergio. They were more than friends—they were my chosen family. Living far from my relatives, I found comfort in their presence. As the only girl in our trio, I endured my share of pranks, massacred Barbie dolls included, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Cris and Sergio were always up to something, full of energy, laughter and mischief.
As we got older and started school in different counties, life slowly pulled us in separate directions. There was no falling out, just distance. But whenever we did reconnect, it was like no time had passed, except we were a little taller and maybe a bit more grown-up. Still, everything else felt the same.
As children, we imagine our futures full of milestones—driver’s licenses, graduations and weddings. We never imagine the unexpected. We assume our friends will grow old with us, not leave us behind. But life isn’t promised. We each have an expiration date, and the cruel part is that we never know when.
Death has always scared me. As a child, it was hard to comprehend. But as a teenager, it became something real and terrifying. In August 2017, I woke up to a heavy feeling I couldn’t explain. The day dragged on with an unshakable sense of dread. At 4 p.m., I got the call—Cris had passed away. It was my first real experience with grief, and I didn’t handle it well.
I’d lost relatives before, but not someone I cared about significantly. I spiraled into insomnia, anxiety and guilt. I started medication to cope. What haunted me most was that earlier that summer, Cris had asked to hang out—and we never set a date. I didn’t know that would be the last time we’d speak. That’s the thing about life: you never know when something will be the last time.
Grief doesn’t follow a script. It’s unpredictable, overwhelming, and at times, paralyzing. You don’t just “get over it.” You live through it, not knowing when or if it will ease. And then, just when you think you’re beginning to heal, it strikes again.
Last year, around midnight in late July, I was mindlessly scrolling through TikTok when a clip from All Dogs Go to Heaven appeared. Charlie, the dog, was telling Anne-Marie he was “going on a little trip.” She asked if she’d see him again. “Sure you will, kid. You know, goodbyes aren’t forever,” he said. I broke down crying. The next morning, I got the call: Sergio was gone. I knew, deep down, that someone had been saying goodbye to me that night.
I’ve come to associate summer with loss, but I know healing takes time. I hope, someday, to rewrite my summers with new memories—ones that bring comfort rather than anxiety.
It’s painful to be the one left behind. I envisioned a different ending for all of us. But if I ever have children, I’ll tell them about Cris and Sergio—my childhood friends who shaped me. In every lifetime, I’d choose them again. I may forget small things, but I’ll never forget them. From beach trips to birthday parties, those memories live on. I carry them with me, always.