Ch. 5 - The Sudden Death of My Best Friend.

play “The Universe” and “The Master and a Hound” by Gregory Alan Isakov while reading

It’s no surprise that I wrote this blog post last before publishing. Elisha is a challenging, beautiful chapter of my life. Where do I even begin? Sometimes I struggle to write about her, because no matter what words I put on this screen or on a piece of paper, they will never fully convey what it felt like to have known her. It’s a singular feeling. All I can do is attempt poetry.

Elisha came into my life around 2017. I had just moved to a small town in Connecticut, far from where I grew up, and felt completely untethered.

I met this ball of joy in the midst of Frank and me. Frank had a gig one night at a small corner dive bar, like he often did. He was talented—deeply so—and also deeply wounded from the relationship before me. I encouraged him to lean into his art, to keep playing. He got good—good enough to start booking gigs (and I think he still plays).

In the beginning, he didn’t have much of a following, but I went to support him anyway. I’d have a drink at the bar and watch the person I loved make music. Frank had mentioned that his bandmate, Richard, had a new roommate—a “beautiful, spunky girl.” I remember feeling a flicker of jealousy. Frank smiled when he talked about her, describing her lightnes.

One night at the dive bar, fully expecting to be alone, she was there—sitting at the bar with a cocktail. She was beautiful: tan, smiling, laughing, seemingly happy all the time. Cute. Radiant. I was immediately jealous of how cool she was.

We struck up a conversation, unaware that this single night would change both of our lives forever. The way she spoke was eloquent and precise; her diction careful, her descriptions vivid. Within minutes, we were seven layers deep into the most intense conversation of our lives. The four of us got so drunk that it felt necessary to bring the night back to my loft apartment to keep it going.

She walked in and became an absolute mess. I remember thinking, Who is this girl?
“Ohhh how glorious this apartment is!” she exclaimed. “This is glorious—and meeting you tonight! How glorious!”

I was so annoyed with Elisha afterward and for a few years, actually. She was spunky—too spunky for me. I was already high-energy; I didn’t think I could handle two of us at once. I didn’t yet understand the mirror effect—that we’re often most irritated by people who reflect parts of ourselves. That was Lish. We were oddly twin-like, and I hated it. Someone once called us, “wound friends.”

At the time, I was too consumed by my own problems to really see her. She was this little elf who would show up at my door, calling me to do “stupid” things—like driving an hour to look at Christmas lights or getting hot chocolate for no reason. I hated it. And deep down, I started to love it. What, I never realized, was that Elisha didn’t have any family, and she saw me as family - like a stray cat arriving at your door.

Something about Elisha slipped past my defenses. I asked for space countless times. She’d disappear for a few days—then show up again. I’d feel guilty. She was sweet, innocent, persistent. Holidays were worse. She’d drive around incessantly, waiting for me to invite her to everything Frank and I did. I would, reluctantly. She was attached. There was no getting rid of her.

When Frank and I broke up, Elisha showed up for me in a way no one ever had. Richard and she were also ending a relationship (they started dating after being roommates), and suddenly we had no one but each other. There were moments I thought, Couldn’t my best friend be a little less annoying? But she was there. Always. Unconditionally.

She loved me as I was. She loved me even in my anger. She grounded me. She listened to my spiritual rants and nodded, assuring me I was valid—even though her attention span was that of a squirrel and she’d change the subject mid-sentence. I’d get mad, forgetting that I talked nonstop. And when it was her turn to share, I often tuned out. I wasn’t the bestest friend in the beginning—but she never made me feel that way.

That winters were heavy. We were both depressed. We’d call each other just to keep company. We became sisters—driving around with no destination, no family to return to, because our families were complicated and broken. On days off, we’d pick each other up and just go—into forests, cafés, anywhere quiet. Sit with coffee while autumn leaves fell. Somewhere along the way, we became immersed—but never said it.

Pumpkin pie became our favorite thing to bake, so much so, that when I did move to San Diego, I would fly back just for her and these moments. We chased the day at breweries, unknowingly chasing the love we’d lost with those boys—trying to recreate music, beer, that old feeling. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. The beer wasn’t right. The show was canceled. The coffee disappointed us. And the sadness would seep back in.

“Lish, do you think we really need to chase the day like this?” I asked once.
“You’re right,” she said. “Maybe we should do something simpler.”

Eventually, I left for San Diego. COVID had hit, and I knew I had to go. Elisha, the orphan my new partner and I had adopted, drove an hour to join family dinners—always present, always weaving herself into my life. Every job. Every boy. Every chapter.

Elisha grew on me in ways I couldn’t have predicted. In Connecticut, she was an acquaintance—someone parallel to my life. She didn’t yet mean  what she would come to mean. And yet, if my life were a book, she’d be one of its biggest plot lines. Life is strange like that.

Her favorite singer, Gregory Alan Isakov, never made sense to me then. Now, every song feels like her.

After I moved, our friendship somehow deepened. She was the most consistent person in my life. Even when I was angry, distant, overwhelmed—she remained. That kind of unconditional presence was foreign to me. Even my parents hadn’t loved me that way.

After multiple heartbreaks, Elisha held me together. She used her breaks from work to call me. Used her only PTO to visit me. She loved me long before I understood it. I was often distracted—texting boyfriends, talking about myself. Now I can see her face across the table, listening so intently, wanting to be there. That was what made our friendship unique—she wanted to be there.

She bothered me around the holidays. I hated it. I didn’t understand then that I was pushing and pulling everyone in my life—unaware of the pattern. She stayed.

We talked every Saturday on the phone. No reason. Just because we needed to. She started getting curious about healing—sound baths, meditation—mostly because I wouldn’t shut up about it. I’d make her sit at the top of hikes and witness silence. Eventually, it stuck with her in her last year of living.

One day, she backed out of a planned trip to San Diego. I felt abandoned. We cried on the phone—both of us. It was the first time I’d ever cried with a friend like that. She explained her anxiety. I explained my hurt. We made it through. But something about that cry we had together struck me - I could feel how much we really wanted to see one another - and how I realized in that moment, Elisha was never going to NOT be a part of my life. I even told her, I don’t think I can imagine a life without you.

In the last year of her life, she said things that still guide me.
“Most people never get to feel this deeply—be grateful.”
“Maybe the universe wanted you to be with yourself for a while.”

She was always right.

Elisha fell in love with one of her best friends - unexpectedly. She finally left the on-and-off again relationship with Richard of 4 years (meanwhile I had 2-3 partners by then). She was absolutely in love. He was kind and gentle with her- I knew him well and how she spoke of him. He was a car guy, she asked to go for a joy ride in October - her favorite month- to listen to music and enjoy the fall leaves. That night she told her boyfriend, “This is the most magical night of my life.” She must have been on some beautiful feeling because she then randomly texted me:
“I love you so much. I want to let you know how important you are to me. I can’t wait to see you and a week can’t go by fast enough.”

Then the car crashed.

Ten minutes later.

I found out the next morning. Her boyfriend, the driver, survived and Elisha’s side of the car, hit a tree.

Her roommate texted me the news and I found myself in the middle of the street bawling on the ground as I held onto the last words she said to me.

People passed by me asking if I was okay - I was about to not be for a very long time. Yet, I was about to embark on the biggest journey of my life.

This loss sent me into one of the darkest mental places—one that would take months to survive, as I tried to understand what any of it meant and what life’s purpose was, from the cosmic to the smallest detail.