Everdearest

When you used to write letters to me, you addressed me as 'Everdearest Priyanka'.  I was in classes on Friday, when I remember this bio exam you took and you accidentally had the book open in your desk. After the exam, you were freaking out because cheating was considered one of Loreto House's cardinal sins. You didn't cheat, but you were afraid that someone would think so if they found out about the open biology textbook.

I sat in front of you, for every exam. During the rest of the school year, I sat next to you. Mitra came before Mukherjee. Every exam, well not Bengali, you asked me to hold my paper up so you could see what I had answered. Every exam, I dutifully held up my answer sheet for you. After every exam you told me, you didn't actually check my answer sheet.  But next exam, we'd do this again. How odd were we?

Yesterday, I dreamt about you. We were bitching about someone. It was well deserved, trust me. When it happened, I picked up my phone because I wanted to share this story, but then I put down my phone, because I just didn't think anyone would get it. In my dream, you shared my sentiment about this.

I am tired and out of it a lot. I know I should be working but it all seems so pointless.

I am not having a good week. I wanted to teach psychology of gender but am teaching pyschology of stress management. Doesn't it seem ironic that I am teaching others about stress management? It seems like a cosmic joke or at least cosmic snark. I write letters to my dead friend and I will soon lecture people on managing stress in a healthy way. At least it's not a grief and bereavement class.