The Orange Hat

The orange hat sat on my dresser like a bright, absurd beacon amidst the grayscale of my life. Mara's hat—festive, ridiculous, perfect. She'd worn it to chemotherapy sessions, insisting that if she was going to lose her hair, she'd do it with flamboyance. That was Mara. Even dying, she refused to be boring.

I pulled it on now. The scent of her perfume still clung to the felt—jasmine and tobacco, a contradiction in olfactory form. We'd been friends for twenty-three years, through three marriages between us, career implosions, that time she accidentally burned down her garage trying to make "artisanal" pizza. Our friendship had survived things that should have killed it. But cancer was something we couldn't joke our way out of.

Her dog, Buster, a judgmental Boston Terrier with one ear that perpetually flopped, appeared in the doorway. He stared at me wearing the hat, his expression somehow more accusatory than usual. As if I were impersonating her poorly. Which I was.

"I know, buddy. I look ridiculous."

He trotted over and pressed his warm side against my leg. The weight of him—solid, living, present—grounded me in ways nothing else could since the funeral. I'd inherited Buster, along with the hat and a box of letters I hadn't been able to bring myself to open.

The thing nobody tells you about losing your best friend is the quiet moments. The world keeps moving, people keep asking if you're okay (you're not), and you're left with a dog who looks at you like you've failed some essential test of existence. I'd always thought I'd be the one to go first—reckless, self-destructive, prone to making bad decisions. Mara was the sensible one, the one with five-year plans and a 401k.

The sun began to set, painting my living room walls in shades of tangerine and rust. Orange light, like her damn hat. Like the dress she'd worn to her college graduation, the same night we'd gotten drunk on cheap wine and made a pact to always tell each other the truth, even when it hurt.

I reached for the box of letters. My hand trembled.

Buster whined softly, nudging my hand with his wet nose.

"Okay. Okay."

I opened the box. The first letter was dated three months before her diagnosis. I'd never seen it before—she'd written it and hidden it, knowing what was coming. The paper still smelled faintly of oranges.

"If you're reading this," she'd written, "I'm gone. And you're probably wearing that ridiculous orange hat. Don't take it off. Don't you dare take it off. Be weird for both of us now."

I laughed through the tears that had been waiting for three weeks. The dog curled into my lap as the last light faded, and finally, for the first time since I'd found her body, I didn't feel entirely alone.