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The Sadness of the Almost-Friend
The fragility of friendship and the rarity of the good ones
She was cool, hip, with an oversized shirt and a deep southern drawl. Emma was working for an organisation which linked lonely, elderly people to visitors.
“I’ve got a special one for you! I think you’ll be able to handle her,” she tells me. Since moving to Victoria, leaving my Gran in Sydney and finding more time on my hands, this was perfect.
The lady, Barbara, was a real firecracker. A conspiracy theorist of the highest order. She spent our first meeting outlining how September 11 was masterminded by the American government. It was on YouTube for anyone to see the evidence!
I was pregnant and tired and she started on vaccinations. “Why anyone would be so dumb to trust the big pharma’s with that poison they pump…” I made an excuse to leave, I was running late to get my flu shot with the doctor.
I’d catch up with Emma and tell her the latest conspiracies from Barbara. She had an intense curiosity of people and enjoyed Barbara’s zaniness as I did. We made plans to interview elderly people and collate their stories as part of a photography exhibition.
We had the makings of a great friendship: endless chats about creative projects, long walks, beach days, sussing…
