'I was ghosted by my friend of 50 years. I never expected an ASICS outlet to be my breaking point.'

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This article is an edited version of one that originally appeared on Marcia Abboud's Substack. Sign up here.

I rummaged through the sale rack at the ASICS factory outlet, searching for that hidden bargain gem. There's always something there, overlooked or ignored by those who shun last season's fashion because it's not the latest. Sam and I used to love that rack and couldn't care less if a particular shade of blue was out and a new shade was in. People can be pedantic and weird. We'd laugh about that.

A fluorescent lime green pair of running shorts in her favourite style caught my eye, and probably everyone else's in the store. All I ever had to do to find a gift for Sam was look for the brightest, loudest colours, the ones that scream, 'look at me', and boom, my task was done.

There was a time I was like that, when colour filled my wardrobe and party outfits were plentiful. When bright purple yoga pants were my go-to for grocery shopping. These days, I'm more Wednesday Addams, minus the woe-is-me face and the serial killer vibe.

Black has always been the new black — my staple. I find it versatile. On crappy days, it hides all the parts of me I don't want noticed. On good days, it's striking and complements my blond-white hair. That's what I call winning.

I keep drifting back to the shorts, which are hurting my eyes now. I pull them from the rack and inspect them properly. An involuntary smile crosses my face as I imagine how they'll look on her.

I'm buying these for Sam. She'll love them…

And like a quick, invisible jab to the neck, I remember.

We're not friends anymore.

I put the shorts back as a wave of melancholy takes hold, and I walk out of the store empty-handed.

I wonder how long this will last, the trickery of my mind? The lapse in recollection. The way the past and memories interlope and ruin moments.

I've been here so many times before.

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The thing about loss.

When my mother died, I still bought her a Mother's Day card for years. I would stand at the display and carefully read each card until I found the perfect one I knew she'd love.

"Oh, that's a lovely card. Lucky Mum."

I'd smile politely at the sales assistant and say nothing. The first time I responded, the poor sales assistant was left open-mouthed and speechless.

"My mum died, but I can't stop buying her cards," and a tear rolled down my cheek.

Idiot. Most strangers can't handle anything more than pleasantries. I learnt a valuable lesson that day. I never did it again.

I'm not sure when I stopped buying cards, but eventually I did. Mum's been gone for nineteen years this month. Time seems to hum a tune we barely notice as it moves glacially at first, then, before we realise, the years have flown by as if by magic.

My memories of her haven't faded at all, but the emptiness of those early years — the void that seemed endless — is now filled with other things as my grandchildren colour my world.

When my marriage ended, I still often shopped as if my husband were at home. I'd buy three T-bones from the butcher — for him, my daughter, and myself. When I took them out of the fridge that night to cook dinner, I'd unwrap the parcel and see the three steaks, and tears would fill my eyes as I remembered.

Happy days for Angel, my Rottweiler. She feasted like a queen during those early months.

For years, every corner I turned held a memory. Every shop I entered contained something he loved that made me think of him. Every long drive, place, beach, or café reminded me of his absence. It was no different than a death — the loss was palpable, and the void felt like a bottomless pit of sorrow until it wasn't. Until other things fill that space — dating, lovers, and a new husband.

My father has been gone for nine years this December. Just the other day, I was in the garden clearing debris from a long winter. It's that time of year when a new layer of topsoil needs to be added, and pots need re-potting. I think of him most when I'm in the garden or on a clear, silvery night when the moon illuminates everything.

Memories of summer nights long gone come back to me, when the moon was full and dad would head out into the garden to fill buckets with snails. For hours, he'd pick them off every leaf and branch as if on a mission to wipe out the species. The next night, there'd be just as many, the buckets would fill again, and he'd keep complaining.

"These bloody snails are like rabbits. You can't blink without a hundred more popping up."

I can't look at a snail without thinking of Dad. I often hear him in my head when I'm gardening.

Last week, I planted a new jasmine vine near the one I planted two years ago, which is now in full, magnificent bloom.

Marce, that's too far from the fence. It's not a tree, it's a climber. It needs to climb. Move it closer.

I moved it, just in case the voice in my head was Dad.

The depth of the voids.

And here I am, a year after my best friend ghosted me, and not a week goes by that I don't think of Sam, my friend of fifty years. Gone but not dead. Absent but still with me, amongst the sale racks of our favourite stores. In the weird little supermarkets that stock things you can't find anywhere else, like chocolate tahini and grilled green olives. Our love of quirky food made everyone around us cringe.

Her silly, twisted sense of humour lives on in my mind. She knew how to make me laugh while everyone in the room looked around awkwardly, wondering what the joke was.

Our bond was the kind that comes from decades of friendship, knowing someone as well as they know themselves. Everyone else was an outlier when we were together.

Not long ago, during a family dinner, I completely lost it, doubled over in laughter, after my daughter asked for a plastic container to store the leftovers. Not funny at all, right? But then a memory popped into my head, and my belly laugh was instant. The kind of laugh that makes everyone else crack up, even if they don't know why. I was in fits, couldn't get the words out, eyes squinted as tears rolled down my face.

"What? What is it! Why are you laughing, Moo Moo?" The grandkids were hysterical now, which was making me worse.

"Mum, what did I say? For f*ck's sake, what's so funny?" My daughter's poker face cracked as the Mexican wave of laughter rolled around the table.

"Here we go," says my husband. "I feel a story coming on." He's laughing too. He has no idea what I'm about to say.

I finally managed to control myself long enough to tell the story. I didn't think anyone would laugh. You know those annoying people who find stories funny, but no one else does. Someone has to say, "I guess you had to be there." I was about to become one of those people.

So I told them about plastic containers and how, growing up, we called them Chinese containers. Because we grew up in the 70s, and Chinese restaurants were all the rage. There were pizza parlours and hamburger joints, but nothing as exotic as the local Chinese restaurant.

Sam and I would gorge until we nearly burst, but we always made sure to have leftovers to eat cold the next morning for breakfast. They'd pack the food in plastic containers, which later became known as Chinese containers. Everyone called them that. The name just stuck.

"Pass me that Chinese container, will you, Marce?"

I was at Sam's place visiting for the weekend, not long before our friendship ended. We'd just devoured a delicious meal she'd cooked, unable to finish it. That was a first. We had a glass of wine with our meal, so both of us were tipsy. We were what you'd call cheap drunks — one glass, and we're in our happy place.

"Do you mean that plastic container?" I point in its direction.

Sam looked at me as if I had two heads and was speaking in tongues. I continued.

"Like, isn't it politically incorrect to still be calling them Chinese containers? Why are they Chinese anyway? Why not Indian, or Thai, or Italian containers? Why the hell are we still calling them Chinese?"

We stared at each other, then down at the container, then back at each other. She lost it, and I lost it because she lost it. Yep, drunk. I'm losing it now just writing this. The whole neighbourhood must've heard our laughter. I'm sure we scared all the dogs.

And I must have retold this story well because the whole family burst out laughing again at the absurdity of our Chinese container story.

It's worth noting that no one was drunk at the family dinner, although I can't speak for my daughter. She can drink an entire bottle of wine, and it doesn't seem to touch the sides. Oh, to be young again.

I'll think of Sam and giggle every time I reach for one of those plastic containers — which are not Chinese.

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Filling the space.

I've made new friendships over the past year, connections so special that I wonder how it's possible when we share no history, live in different time zones, and are so culturally different. I've found a new best friend. As if the universe conspired all along, creating space for her to fit, bringing us together, knowing I'd need her more than I ever imagined. And she would need me, too.

I think of Sam less these days. My emails and texts are now for others, and my new best friend is my constant virtual companion. She isn't a replacement. People can't be replaced, no matter how much we might try. She's a new chapter in my story; one I hope won't end until either of us does.

Yet, when I wake at 4 am to write and stand at the kitchen sink while waiting for my tea to steep, I know that Sam is in her kitchen, brewing her Italian coffee on the stovetop in her favourite cafetière. The house would be filled with that lovely aroma, and I'd always want to ditch my tea and go back to drinking coffee. She'd pour me a small one.

"You'll need a coffee chaser after that rubbish you're drinking."

And we'd laugh.

I'm sure I'll still think of her when I browse sales racks, wander through old bookshops, or come across a new banana bread recipe she'd love. And when I do, I'll smile because I'll always have the memories while making new ones.

Life is simply one long story with new chapters unfolding as the years pass. Nothing can change the story, so I'll cherish the good chapters and ignore the rest. Mind you, those shitty chapters do make excellent writing material — the upside.

I wonder, as I grow older, whether everything will just become a reminder of those we've lost long ago: a whisper, a faint laugh, a greeting card. The scent of jasmine in spring and the aroma of coffee all the time. The sound of wind chimes on a summer breeze or an old song in a movie. They are all there — the ones we've loved and lost — living on in the everyday rhythm of life.

What a comfort that is.

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Feature image: Supplied.