By Louise Prior

When I was nine, my mother died. It was painful and tough to understand at that age. 

Despite my grandparents’ concern about me returning to school three days after her passing, I was eager to. I wanted something familiar, something safe. If I’m candid, I don’t remember much from that day. All I remember is arriving at school, and what should have been break time instead became an impromptu fire drill. 

My friends and I huddled to the rack where our lunch boxes were in the hallway. They hadn’t left my side. The rack was right underneath the fire bell. The harsh, cruel, repetitive shrill of it through the air frightened me. At nine years old, I was already a particularly emotionally sensitive little thing, but losing Mum had thrown me for a loop. In a jolt, I dropped my lunch box and stumbled backwards. My friends steadied me. It all moved very quickly. There wasn’t a scheduled drill, so Mrs Young sprang into action. 

Maia had given me a teddy bear that morning; I remember clutching it as we walked to the field. The sudden shock of everything brought me to the brink of tears. My cousin asked me if I was okay, and I cried. 

My friends shared worried looks before huddling around me and telling me everything would be okay. I remember their tight hugs as we walked in stumbling steps to our class line for the roll call. Molly’s grip on my shoulder brought me back to reality. It was real and reminded me of my friends, who were there and surrounding me, comforting me in a time of need. 

*

When I think of Nan’s funeral ten years later, I think of the small meaningful moments. 

The entire ride to the service, my cousin sat by my side and held my hand in silence; we didn’t need to speak to be heard. Molly was there and wrapped her arm around my shoulder like she did when we were nine years old on that field. Without knowing, she said the same things she said then, and told me how much she loved Nan’s pancakes. 

Skye sat next to me throughout the Wake, knowing how to distract me. She brought me a present: Goblin Market and Other Poems by Christina Rossetti. ‘I hate this,’ I whispered as we sat at a table in the corner. Everyone was accumulating at the buffet. Occasionally, a person would offer me their condolences. ‘I know,’ Skye said. 

Skye moved the shared plate closer to me. I wouldn’t have the strength to feed myself otherwise. I wanted to sit there and do nothing. Eat, drink, sleep – none of it. Picking at what was on the plate, I asked her about the book. She said she got it to cheer me up; she remembered me saying I loved Rossetti’s poetry. Digging my thumbs on the hardback corners of the book, I felt it push into my skin. ‘Thank you, Skye,’ I said softly, knowing she could hear me. ‘That means a lot to me.’

*

I fell into bed that night, but sleep did not come easy to me. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well do something with my time. I had a new book to read, so I might as well start it. I plodded through Goblin Market, pacing the words out to hear the rhythm. I paused at the final lines before smiling fondly.

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way,

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands.

Those final lines struck a chord with me, settling something in my heart. There is often a cliché (but nonetheless true) statement regarding the bond within female friendships – it’s often called a sisterhood. A sisterhood is women who will support you through your darkest times. 

I was fortunate enough to have my friends that day on the playground, and at Nan’s funeral. They stood by me and held me up when I could not hold myself, when I didn’t have the strength. They were my sisters, if not by blood but by choice.