How do you prove a friend that he is not alone? How do you show him that he is not alone? You are not there to hold his hand. You are here, writing a letter and saying (weeks after the tragedy has happened) that he should imagine your hand on his shoulder, his head resting in your lap. How do you persuade him that he is not alone when you yourself feel lonelier than ever? When you are wrapped in your own lonesomeness so tight that you can hardly move or breathe? How do you prove that there is a heart-to-heart closeness when you are countries and years away? Your news reach the friend too late, his happy moments have long gone when your congratulations reach him.
You go for the extreme. You try telepathy. You burn candles, impose rhythms and tempos to your breathing, you focus, chant, meditate, curl up in aching positions and lose sleep – hoping it is not in vain.
The result reaches you when you’ve almost forgotten everything you did that strange night: your friend dreamt that you fell in a dark pit, bumped your head, broke a leg, but a pack of wolves brought you bleeding and trembling to his house. You were washed and tended to and when you recovered from your convalescence, you gave a smile and produced a perfectly white lion’s foot from your dirty, smelly backpack. The friend woke up worried that you might be sick and in need of help, but then calmed down remembering the wolves. Salvation is near. He never once imagined all the fuss was meant to make him feel better. Your friend never got the proper message. At least, he didn’t fret needlessly, you think, folding the late-arrived letter and going to bed without a thought, without a second thought.