Ciarán
A handful of friends are for life.
This week it is exactly a year ago that my friend Ciarán went to bed – for the very last time. He passed away in his sleep, unannounced and to the best of my knowledge unintentional, at the age of 27.
I met Ciarán in Dublin when we were both 23 and kicking and screaming: young, outgoing and as self-confident as our facades would allow us to be. We became buddies and didn’t think much of it until a couple of months later, when an issue arose in his personal life. I’d been blunt with him before and since he had begrudgingly appreciated my honesty, he turned up at my doorstep for advice one afternoon and poured his heart out. This was a different, vulnerable person who had let his barriers down to allow me to look into his head, and a different kind of friendship was born. We had created a bond that we both came to rely on in the coming years: one of trust, respect, shared experiences and mutual understanding. Almost simultaneously we moved out of Dublin. He went to study in Scotland and I set up camp in a god-forgotten hole in the West of Ireland. The night of his leaving-do he tugged at my elbow and said: “Thank you for that afternoon. It meant a lot.”
We may have started to lead separate lives, but our friendship had been forged. Our phone calls back and forth were filled with funny anecdotes and silly gossip, but also with deep sighs and subsequent advice. During the summer holidays he was one of the only from my old Dublin crowd who visited me in the West of Ireland. When he moved back to our capital city I was still living in the West, but whenever we were in each other’s parts of the country we would look each other up and pick up where we’d left off. The gaps would be filled by phone calls, usually at times of distress when we instinctively knew that the other wouldn’t judge and lend a comforting shoulder that had become familiar. The brazen boys had both grown into more world-wise young adults, and they had been there to guide each other on the way.
The next time I went to visit Ciarán, I found myself standing in front of a fresh grave covered in wreaths and flowers at the foot of a beautifully decorated but eerie Celtic cross in a Connemara graveyard. I hardly remember that first visit, apart from crouching down and numbly expecting him to respond to what I was saying. This week, a year onwards, I am still finding it awkward to talk about him because it entails referring to him in the past. I still find it hard to look at pictures or watch footage – especially because I am reminded of the voice that encouraged me or confided in me in return. But above all, to me, Ciarán is, not was. He is ever-present: physically only as a headstone on the edge of Galway Bay and as a picture on my desk, but when I find myself feeling sad or confused, I am always remembering his words and finding courage in the way he would have spurred me on, regardless of the situation. It’s like we’re still looking out for each other.
His death has taught me one very important lesson: never take your friends for granted, and never underestimate the importance and powerful influence of their friendship. We all know young people do find untimely, tragic deaths, but it hardly ever happens to us. But today I can’t dial Ciarán’s number to have a laugh or a rant. Texts or Facebook PMs of joy or frustration will remain unanswered. When I had my birthday, six weeks after his passing, I felt uncomfortable during the birthday toast. All I could think of was that I was after reaching an age Ciarán never would. Even if I outlive him by another 60 years, we’ll never sit on the bus into town again and go for a pint. Our friendship now consists of my memories and a deep gratitude that we shared a couple of years together at such an important time in our lives.
Ciarán thanked me for being his friend and it’s a very comforting memory. From now on, I make a point of telling my friends that I love them because I never told him until I stood at his grave. Naturally, I love my family, but I wouldn’t dream of confessing to them half of what I can share with my friends. Before Ciarán died I never used to tell my friends how fortunate I am that they are in my life – and that they are such an important part of it, of the fabric that keeps me happy. Ciarán has seen a few of my romantic conquests come and go, but as they fell by the wayside he was still there, consistent in his friendship. A handful of friends are for life, or just come along at the right time before your ways separate again. Friendship is often underestimated, but so vital, and if lovers can have their Valentine’s Day, good friends most definitely deserve their own love-in and praise.
By: Mario Danneels
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