For Asal: For Honey عسل

Flannel Diaries
May 26
4 min read

I've been crying uncontrollably the past few days, and I finally figured out why, this is the time of year Asal died. Or, maybe more accurately, when she was slowly dying. Slowly killing herself.

And aren’t we all, in a way, when we deny our truth and bury ourselves in shame? Yeah, I’m being a little dramatic. But that’s how it felt.

I remember the year she passed. It was 2011, Memorial Day weekend. I was out with friends, having a good time, but I had this overwhelming sense of dread. I even said something to my partner at the time, how I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

My father had only been gone for less than two years, and I probably still hadn’t processed that grief. But this was different. This felt like something breaking loose in the universe.

Before I left California, Asal told me she didn’t want to be friends anymore. Those weren't her exact words but something like that. She said things that were harsh but honest, for her, at least. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t question it. I tried to reach out, to maybe talk it through, to see if there was a way forward, but I was distracted. At that time, my father was dying. I was leaving everything I knew behind. And I just didn’t have the capacity to fight for us.

I held out hope that we’d circle back. That time would pass, and like old friends do, we’d find each other again. Because that’s what friendship is. It stretches. It survives. I thought we had that.

I’ll admit, back then, I was selfish. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t realize how much my absence fractured the little web of friendships I was part of. I didn’t know how much I mattered to people. I didn’t know I mattered. I think I lost myself trying to manage what everyone wanted from me. And in the process, I lost her.

Especially when your best friend of ten years tells you that you’ve become unbearable. That you’ve changed. That you’re stuck-up and pretentious. And the truth is, I had changed. My proximity to whiteness, being in a relationship with a very driven, very boundary-clear white woman, had shifted the way I moved through the world. And it made some people feel like I wasn’t myself anymore.

Maybe I shut down. Maybe I assumed everyone would get over it. That friendships like ours could survive a break. But they can’t if one person is gone and the other is hurting in silence.

Asal and I had lived together. We talked nearly every day. We were both immigrants, me from the Philippines, her from Iran. She was brilliant. Quick-witted. Funny in that smart, cutting kind of way. She loved poetry, especially Rumi. She once told me her name, Asal, meant "honey" in Farsi. And it fit. Her voice had this slight accent, soft but distinct. Sweet and sharp all at once. I can still hear it sometimes. We even dated the same woman once, though not at the same time (That’s a story for another day).

The call came late. Around midnight. I was already in bed. Emme, my ex, the woman Asal dated after me, called to say she was gone.

And somehow, I wasn’t surprised. My body already knew. That dread? That ache? It was my soul recognizing a shift. Asal was no longer in this world. At least, not in physical form.

I do believe in God. I believe in energy, in spirit, in something bigger. I don’t know where we go when we die. Maybe into the wind. Maybe the stars. Maybe we just dissolve into cosmic dust, folded back into the universe.

I felt guilt for a long time. For not being there. For not seeing what she needed. I think if I had, and if I had offered help, she might have taken it.

Since then I’ve had a lot of therapy. I’m okay now. I'm fine. Mostly.

You’d think it would get easier with time. And for the most part, the rest of the year is easier. But then her death anniversary rolls around and wrecks me in ways I don’t expect. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

So, I’ll leave you with a happy memory.

The first time I met Asal was at a lesbian bar, it was called G-spot, actually. We were both there with our girlfriends, and I was standing there, double-fisting cocktails, because if you’ve ever been to a bar in San Francisco, you know it’s more efficient that way. Amanda introduced us. And Asal later told me she thought I was the coolest person. Just me, holding two drinks, unapologetically enjoying the night surrounded by my people and laughing with my friends.

She remembered that moment. And so do I.

She was flawed. Complicated. Beautiful. And I will always miss her. And the friendship we could have had. Always.

May your soul be at peace, Asal. Wherever you are.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” – Rumi