I met her at my first chemo infusion. It was more than nerve-wracking. When I walked into the treatment room, I saw the other patients present, some of them so weak, so frail, one step away from the spectre that had been scraping its fingernails over my mind since my diagnosis. I saw her there, too. I nearly walked out, right then and there.

I didn't.

The woman, who later became my friend, had such kind eyes, open and friendly. I avoided her gaze. I avoided her on almost every occasion after that. We had the same oncologist, and so, always ended up receiving treatment on the same days.

I couldn't comprehend her. Her case was worse than mine, and yet, she spoke with such lightness, chattered endlessly about the most mundane things, spoke about her future as if it were a certainty.

I was wrapped up in my own misery. I thought that I was being so brave, such a realist, acknowledging that death was never far away. This woman seemed, to me, to be in denial. I wanted no part of that.

As the months went by, I began to see how wrong I was. She spoke to me, prying me gently open, and her words bruised my flesh, yet made me whole. She was brave. She knew full well the severity of her case. And yet, she still laughed. She expressed the wish that we would regain our sense of taste soon (chemo kills the tastebuds). We would look at menus online and talk about how we'd order pizza together, when this nebulous darkness had been pulled back from our lives and we could sit in the sun again.

Another young woman joined our discussions during this time. She was also there for treatment. She was beautiful, so beautiful. I would look at her glossy regrowth of black hair, the red of her lips, the red dot on her forehead, her wide, wide smile, her firm stride even when pain flared through her spine, and I felt hope. Such small, daring, brave hope.

My friends, as I came to call them, made my chemo sessions bearable. More than that, they made me feel warm, welcome, as if treatment was an ordeal shared among weary travelers at a sputtering campfire.

Of our trio, I am the only one still alive.

Today, I ordered a good meal and allowed each distinct flavour to permeate my recovered taste buds. I remembered every meaningless detail of my friend's nephew's kindergarten. I remembered the pain behind my other friend's red-lipped smile, her loneliness, her courage.

My friends are like songbirds, startled by my presence in the wild, calling out as they fly beyond my reach. I know I should say goodbye, that I should make my peace. And yet, no matter how far they fly, I can always see them, from the corner of my eye. I can hear their voices, feel the warmth of their fingers on my once-bare scalp.