No good reason, just this.

Yesterday was my friend Rosie’s birthday.

It’s 27 years since she was born, since she forced her way into the world. I imagine her tiny red body, indignant and hungry and not yet revealing that smattering of luminous golden freckles.

I just Googled her name, but not one of the 206 results has anything to do with her. I suppose 18 years isn’t really enough time to do anything that might merit internet attention.

My friends – our friends – back in Perth got together last night to eat but mostly drink and toast her and talk about her and breathe fresh oxygen into her memory for another year. I met Rosemary when I was six and she died when we were all 18 and every year that passes puts more time between us when we were with her and the versions of ourselves that we become every day since.

By that I mean, she’s still 18 and we’re 27. This also means that not a single one of the cells that I’m made of would have ever brushed against one of hers.

Each year (and not just on 23 November) we cross that not-yet rickety bridge of years and on the other side we find her but we find ourselves as well. I just wish I could have made that trip this year in the company of some of the oldest and sweetest friends I have.

This should tie up somehow but that would be less than the truth.