I'll plant a mango tree for you.

I am not familiar with death. I may have flirted with it in my infancy, but it is my parents who have an appreciation for the Scythe-wielding Angel. By and large, I ignore death. I don't pay it any mind. After all, I am not old. I am not an invalid. I am not playing dice with HIV/AIDS, cancer or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Because I am not dying and I don't think I am dying any time soon, I do not know what to tell you when you are dying. Many people will pretend to know what to do or what to say or how to act simply because you have one foot in the grave; I don't and I probably never will.

Before I met you, you were already on your way across the river. So was I, by the by. What we didn't know was how long our crossings would be. Mine seems interminable, yours seems mercilessly short. You and I are not the traditionalists our parents sometimes wished we were, are we? You and I had an intimate knowledge of MTV at one time and we spent a great portion of our youth learning, and then unlearning, sheng'. Those bits of traditions that were imposed on us were surprisingly unintrusive. (I think anaesthesia is simply one of the best inventions of modern medicine, don't you?)

In any case, you were always on your way out. I'm a little sorry that your time is shorter than mine, but it's not my fault so your getting shirty with me over it just twists my briefs into a wad. Losing your temper because you're dying won't chance the fact that you are still dying. Of course I am not going away, but I am not going to let you turn me into a piñata every time I forget that you are dying or that you're dying alone.

No, I'm not going to tell you to "fight to the end" or to "live life to the full." If you want to die in bed, then go for it. If you want to drink whiskey until the curtain comes down, just hand over your AmEx Black and I can assure you that there will be a river of Double Black on your brief journey. If you want to engage in those bucket list lunacies you kept needling me about, by all means, go ahead, jump off the Eiffel Tower - just don't expect me to hold your hand while you jump. Do what you want. Yeah I know I said don't use me for a piñata but if that floats your boat, even for a while, go for it too - just know I will bite back and I'll be just as mean and disagreeable as you.

So she died first. I didn't say sorry then. I am not doing so now. I didn't kill her. You didn't either. So what did we have to be sorry for? You got shirty too that I didn't come for the wake. Yeah, I'm going to miss yours too. Every now and then I'll remember that you were my friend and I was yours. But only every now and then. I am not going to dwell on you and what you meant to me. Besides, after they plant you in the garden down the road, you'll rot, stink up your box, then turn, ever so slowly, to ash. I'll miss you. I just hope it is not too much. Farewell, my friend. (I'll plant your favourite mango tree on your plot.)