Coffee with June

This story contains content which may upset some on the topic of traumatic grief and loss.

The enforced global social distancing has basically turned everyone into a hermit, including myself, who never signed up for a social life in the first place. I’m a dedicated middle-aged professional, which is just a fancy way of saying I spend my days pretending my Zoom calls are essential. I live alone in a modern apartment on the tenth floor, with a view of the city lights that I’ve stared at so much that I'm sure they have moved an inch to the right on several occasions (or maybe that’s the wine). But amidst this upheaval, my familiar routines provide a comforting anchor in these uncertain times.

After a long day of back-to-back meetings, I treat myself to a luxurious candlelit bath—probably the only time I get to enjoy the spa-like experience without actually leaving the house—and sip on Chardonnay that my more glamorous friends would judge harshly. Despite these tiny moments of serenity, I find myself craving deep human connection—like real friendships and meaningful conversations. Back in my youth, those involved laugh attacks that made me spit out my soda and pranks that got me grounded for life. Now, I binge-watch cat videos until my eyes glaze over and pretend that my houseplants are my tiny, silent squad—my green amigos in exile.

Perhaps it's nostalgia, but some of my connections these days lack the depth and relatability I crave, leaving me feeling empty. Despite the numerous acquaintances I surround myself with these days, I yearn for deep, lasting friendships—genuine relationships that truly resonate.

Recently, I’ve been pondering whether such close connections are a luxury only the young can afford. Back in my youth, my paper phone book was bursting with friends I could call anytime—an endless list of numbers at my fingertips. Now, in my middle years, I consider myself lucky to have even one genuine connection. When I finally manage to text ten friends on a rare morning with free time, at least half are usually at work, some might be at the dentist, and others could be at a long-overdue doctor's appointment. Heaven forbid, they’re at a funeral, which I might have to attend. But hey, it’s not all doom and gloom. I have fewer but more authentic friendships these days, and I have many beautiful memories to keep in my memory box for lonely days.

Treasured Memory

Today, I had the joy of reconnecting with an old friend—though 'old' is a loose term! She’s not ancient, just vintage, like a fine wine or a really well-loved pair of jeans. We've known each other since high school, back when perms were the hottest trend—and I still can’t believe we willingly let someone bleach our hair into shiny, frizzy masterpieces. In youth, June and I giggled at the dumbest jokes, often while trying to invent the next big viral dance move—spoiler: we failed, but at least we looked good doing it. Our reunion today, after so many years, brought back a flood of nostalgic memories and a warm, comforting feeling of familiarity.

When our families were young, our busy adult lives kept us apart so often that we could have been mistaken for distant relatives rather than best friends. Every reunion felt like winning the lottery—if the lottery involved a lot of screaming and spilt juice. As busy working moms with six kids between us, our lives were a never-ending circus. I especially remember that one summer day with June—hot, sticky, and full of chaos. The summer seemed to stretch on forever, mainly because it rained every other minute, trapping me indoors with four tiny tornadoes fuelled by popcorn, cartoons, and way too much screen time. Honestly, by the end of the day, I was ready to trade my children for a quiet island—though I love them more than anything, even I, a seasoned mom, needed a break from the chaos. That quick escape with June was like a breath of fresh air—if fresh air came with a side of laughter and a promise not to talk about diet plans or laundry for at least an hour.

No running, no nose-wiping, no cooking, no playing the domestic superhero—or maybe just a little less, because apparently superheroes need to follow the rules too. Eternally grateful to my neighbour's daughter for the babysitting, I recall throwing on my raincoat and slip-on shoes as if I were about to embark on a secret mission, and darting out the door faster than a squirrel on an energy drink—before some other minor indoor catastrophe could occur.

Finding the perfect spot to meet June with just the right blend of ambience, peace, and company has been a journey—like searching for the last slice of pizza in the fridge. But I finally claimed it. On that August morning, I strutted towards my favourite escape: Burkes Family Cafe, my sanctuary at the end of my street, on the corner—basically my neighbourhood's best-kept secret (which mostly means no one else wanted it). When life’s chaos gets too much, that's where I retreat—to hide and breathe, or occasionally nap if no one’s watching. As I rounded the corner and spotted the redbrick building, a deep sigh of relief escaped involuntarily—some days, I think I’d trade my soul for a decent cup of coffee. The peace and tranquillity of this spot instantly calmed my mind and filled me with contentment.

Perfect Day

As I approached Burke's, the sunset tried its best to look dramatic, tossing orange, purple, and yellow hues across the sky like a toddler finger painting. The world seemed to pause—probably in awe of how I was about to snag my favourite seat. A few plump, floral wicker chairs sat there, some already occupied by anxious café regulars eyeing each other suspiciously. But my favourite spot was sitting there, apparently waiting just for me—probably because it knew I was the main character. Yes, I have my favourite chair—and today, I felt a victorious rush, as if I’d just won the lottery, or at least a small but meaningful battle for the throne. Securing the seat by the window gave me an almost childlike sense of triumph, as if I’d conquered a mountain—though it was just a cosy café chair. "Everyone must want this seat,' I secretly thought, smirking like I’d just outsmarted a squad of pirates. Today, I was the chosen one, destined for greatness—at least until someone more deserving arrived.

I will admit, as I grow older, the grand milestones of life can seem trivial—mostly because I now see them as elaborate excuses to eat cake. The ambitious younger generations might look at such achievements with confusion, like they're watching a strange ritual. 'Oh, but you just wait,' I chuckle to myself with a sly grin, probably while sneaking a cookie. At five minutes past the hour, I waited eagerly—mainly for the timer to go off— as June finally arrived. Her bright, beaming smile and the way she stretched her arms toward me were utterly infectious, much like yawning in a crowded theatre. The genuine gratitude and joy radiating from her were impossible to miss, unless you’re blind or wearing noise-cancelling headphones. She exhaled a long, relieved sigh upon arriving—no words needed, just like when I finally find the last sock in the laundry. It was in that moment that I felt a surge of emotions —a mix of relief, joy, and the realisation that perhaps I should be more excited about naps.

June’s embrace was a fleeting burst of warmth and comfort… kind of like finding a forgotten snack at the bottom of your bag—brief, satisfying, and then gone just when you start to think it’s worth cherishing. That first moment carried me into more meaningful minutes, mostly because I was trying to figure out if I was actually being hugged or if I was just in someone’s suspiciously warm coat. It reminded me of how long it’s been since I genuinely felt the touch of a loved one—probably since I last hugged my pillow.

The recent global social distancing measures really threw a wrench into everyone's plans — including mine. Our kids have grown up so fast, I barely remember their crying phase, and now I'm a dedicated professional... though not quite by choice. I live alone in my sterile penthouse on the tenth floor, boasting stunning vistas of the city bay — and endless opportunities to talk to my plants. Every night, I relax in my private terrace hot tub, sipping chardonnay and pondering whether it’s socially acceptable to talk to the stars. While I flaunt my material luxuries, I can't help but miss the simple joys — like genuine friendships, or even just someone to complain to about the Wi-Fi being slow.

Despite the numerous acquaintances I surround myself with these days, I yearn for deep, lasting friendships—genuine relationships that truly resonate. Many of my connections these days lack the depth and relatability I crave, leaving me feeling empty, like a cookie without chocolate chips. Recently, I’ve been pondering whether such close connections are a luxury only the young can afford—like paying for a subscription to friendship. Back in my youth, my paper phone book was bursting with friends I could call anytime—an endless list of numbers at my fingertips, practically a phone book version of a phone tree. Now, in my middle years, I consider myself lucky to have even one real connection—probably one of those friends I swore I’d never ignore, but now I’m just happy they answer my texts. When I finally manage to text ten friends on a rare morning with free time, at least half are usually at work, some might be at the dentist (got to keep those pearly whites in check), and others could be at a long-overdue doctor's appointment—because who doesn’t love a good check-up? Heaven forbid, they’re at a funeral, which I might have to attend—talk about riveting conversation. But hey, it’s not all doom and gloom; at least I don’t have to worry about losing my Wi-Fi signal during an emotional moment.

Miraculous Meeting

As June finally decided to grace us with its presence, she staggered in like a zombie—glasses perched halfway down her nose and her hairstyle, once neat, now a wild masterpiece courtesy of the wind and her dash in. I couldn’t help but smile inwardly—'Some things never change,’ I thought, probably because she’s a morning person and I’m definitely not. I marvelled at the miraculous event of actually meeting today, like spotting a unicorn sipping a latte in the office break room. Countless attempts had come close, but no cigar. With a bunch of dependent humans counting on us to keep the chaos contained—and us just trying to prevent the world from exploding—it's a miracle we've kept the lights on and the Wi-Fi flowing without accidentally launching us into a blackout galaxy. But hey, that's a story for another day or maybe a hilarious blog post, depending on how many cups of coffee I’ve had.

Unless a life-threatening emergency suddenly appeared—like a zombie invasion or an alien landing—meeting with June today was absolutely crucial. We finally connected, and I felt like I was a teenager again, except with more wrinkles and less acne. Seeing June instantly lifts my mood; her magnetic presence lights up every room she enters—probably because she’s like a walking disco ball. She's almost always cheerful and radiates lively, youthful energy—confident, optimistic, and full of joy, much like a kid who’s just found an endless supply of candy.

Almost immediately, I notice a shift in June’s expression. Her smile appears benign at first, but a closer look reveals an unsettling glint in her eyes—something subtle yet chillingly unmistakable. I suppress my rising unease, remaining silent, drawn into her quiet, formidable strength. She unveils her true self only when the moment is frozen in perfect anticipation—secrets carefully guarded until the darkness beckons. That’s just who she is, a mystery wrapped in shadows.

We chatted openly, exchanging updates about our families and careers. Everything seemed fine with June, yet that strange, unsettling feeling persisted in my gut. Perhaps it was simply indigestion; after all, we had each just enjoyed an indulgent, extra-large red velvet cake with cream and ice cream. Nonetheless, that nagging sensation refused to disappear.

As my friend Cathy always says, 'Girls have another treat; when you're out, you're out.’ Today, June and I are both definitely out. Seriously, that’s another weird thing—June never eats cake. Her perfectly proportioned figure is basically a magic trick, probably performed by a dietitian wizard. She’s usually the queen of discipline, but today, she threw all caution—and her calorie count—out the window. I was so stunned when she ordered a double shot of whipped cream in her latte, I almost called 911. The shock of it!

However, for the moment, I continued to make small talk with June. The children were growing, and their specific interests and abilities were developing. (The proud Mom in me could not resist.) June also mentioned that they were considering downsizing their beautiful chateau-style house. The idea of June selling her house rang further warning bells in my mind. June had always loved her unique home. I remember she had lived on a meagre amount for years while saving for the deposit to build it. She was extremely proud of the finished look, which was exactly as she had envisioned.

Out with it!

OK, that was it. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. 'Out with it, June—what on earth is going on with you?' I demanded, my voice sharp with curiosity and concern. She hesitated, instinctively trying to deny what was obvious, but then suddenly, tears streamed down her face. Oh no, this wasn’t the scene I intended to create. Panic prickled at my skin as I watched the usually composed June break apart emotionally, crying uncontrollably with her entire body shaking in unison. I was speechless, numb. 'What do I do now?' I wondered, centring myself with a deep breath. 'In for four, out for four,' I reminded myself—wait, was it five seconds? No matter. I muttered, almost to myself, realising this was a crisis. 'June, what’s wrong? I’m so sorry—I never meant to upset you,' I said, hearing my voice shaking with empathy and urgency.

I gave June a tissue from my emergency supply—every mom has one. She blew her nose loudly and then flooded me with a barrage of words. My mind struggled to follow the confusing flow of information, but some words stood out: tumour, brain, tests. These comments couldn’t be ignored. I gently stopped her, saying, 'Stop, June; I can't understand. Take a breath and tell me again, slowly.' I tried to listen, brace myself and prepare for what was coming.

At first, I desperately hoped I had misheard the news. 'Maybe I misunderstood,' I told myself. But when I heard it a second time, my heart sank and hope faded. Hope faded. In fact, I felt stunned, entirely out of control.

June told me she had been feeling unwell for quite some time, with a persistent tiredness that wouldn't go away, accompanied by a nagging sense of unease she couldn't shake. She decided to visit her doctor, hoping for a simple explanation. Instead, what she received was words that struck like lightning—terrifying: a brain tumour that demanded immediate, life-altering surgery. She went on to tell me that the news hit her like a freight train, shattering her entire existence.

As I sat there, helpless and stunned, my mind raced back to that same crushing blow, the same gut-wrenching pain I had felt years ago when I learned of my father's sudden death. The memory surged forth- The cruel whirling of my head, the pounding in my chest—it all flooded back, making it impossible to breathe.

The rest of that coffee date, the one filled with laughter and chatter just moments before, blurred into nothingness after that bombshell. Details faded, as I tried to stay present, holding June's hand so tightly I nearly cut off her circulation. I’m not sure how long we sat there that day, but as a consequence of that meeting, I still have, to this day, a haunting reminder of life's fragility and how quickly everything can change in the blink of an eye.

That news exploded in my mind five years ago today, shattering everything I believed in. During June’s agonising illness, her relentless optimism and her desperate fight to stay positive kept me clinging to hope—until last week, when she was found in suspicious circumstances, with a bullet to her head that had killed her. June had left a note saying she had chosen to leave this world in her own time, as she did not want to endure any more suffering on earth. In true June style, she had, until the end, chosen her unique way of doing things.

Now, as I stand beside her damp, cold casket on this rain-soaked day, I can’t shake the feeling that my happiest days are being buried alive with her, suffocating in the muddy ground. How am I supposed to go on without my reason to smile? At the moment, it feels like life without her; life is nothing but absolute despair and endless horror.