Memory of bubbles

When I was little, I had two very close friends who were born in the same month as me and whom I had known since when I was about two years old. The three of us always played together. With these two girls, I could share anything about what was happening in my daily life, and there was a sense of deep care between us.

The spring when my younger brother passed away, many of my friends at the kindergarten did not really understand what happened to me, but my two dear friends had known my brother very well, and they really stood close by me. They continued to talk about my brother even though his physical presence was gone, and I remember feeling truly seen and heard.

A few months after the departure of my brother, the three of us had the idea to make bubbles out of a hand soap my brother used to use during his hospital stay as a way to remember his spirit.

My mother was surprised to hear this idea when the three of us came into the tiny kitchen and made our request, but seeing our sincere intention, she agreed to help us.

We graded a little bit of the soap bar, put them into three small jars and mixed with water. That was it. My mother us gave plastic straws to blow the bubbles. Excited, we thanked my mother and went out to try the bubbles.

For some reason, we decided to blow our bubbles on a street not in the park. Our bubbles did not come out as big as the ones sold at stores, but we were able to make small bubbles, and it was fun enough for us.

As time went by, I got engaged, and lost attention to the surroundings. Suddenly, one of my friends called me. “Watch out, a car is coming!” I ran to the side just in time to avoid the car, but I forgot my jar on the street. Unfortunately, it was caught by one of the tires, and the content spilled.

“My bubbles!!” I cried. When the car was gone, I ran to my jar. It was empty. Not a drop was remaining in the jar. I started to cry.

My two friends were standing away from me, murmuring to each other. As I cried, I wondered if they thought I was silly to cry over such a thing. That’s what people usually told me when I cried over things. I felt hurt.

A few moments later, they finished their secret talk and approached me. “You can have ours.” They both poured some from their jars into mine. I stopped crying. “Thank you.” And we continued to play the bubbles until all the liquid was gone. There was not a single trace of tear on my face when we finished playing. I was just happy.

Years later, when I was in school, whenever people asked me what was the thing that I was most thankful for, I would always write about this incident with my friends.