Maybe I tell/care too much.

I have a friend. She occasionally writes to me. Wish she’d write more often. Because I like to hear from her. After all, she’s a dear friend. But I can’t compel her to do anything. Anyway, when she does write, she often starts her letter with a complaint. About what she doesn’t like about me. Something I do. Like what I’m doing now. Writing about her. In a public forum.  Oh, she remains anonymous. Don’t dare use her name. Out of respect. If I wrote a novel, she’d be in it. A variation of her real self. I’d make her into a heroine, of sorts. She might detest me for it. Though maybe not. Because if we are dear and true friends, we’d accept each other. Unconditionally. Even the blemishes. She tells me she doesn’t completely trust me. Because of what I’m doing now. Writing about her. Thing is, I tell her this stuff directly, too. In personal letters. But I don’t stop there. Because I’m a writer, and a former journalist. That’s my way. I write about the meaningful stuff of life. Yes, that I have this dear friend. That sometimes contemplates taking her own life.  She’s an advocate of suicide. Under the right circumstances.  I tell her that I am personally in love with life. And that I’m worried about her. Because she has bouts of depression. She might do it. Some day. Maybe she’s doing it now. In slow and methodical fashion.  Smoking herself to death. I’ve tried to persuade her to stop smoking. For the sake of life. But smoking is one of her pleasures. In a sense, it keeps her out of depression. And alive. Maybe smoking does her more good than harm.  Meanwhile, I’m hopeful that I’m doing my friend far more good than harm. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.  Maybe I tell/care too much. –Jim Broede