About a friend

Yesterday, I heard of passing away of a friend’s brother. He was I think only twenty-one or twenty-two.
The news left me totally shaken up, mostly because of the feeling of sheer helplessness that death leaves after it. Not that I could have helped this friend too much. We stopped speaking to each other a couple years back, over something very trivial, as is the case usually.
Strangely after hearing the news, I felt like I had spoken to her just yesterday.
I could clearly recall her talking of her brother with a mixture of pride and exasperation (the tone we all usually reserve for our siblings). I remember her stories of their shared childhood, of her parent’s worry about his future, an impulsive act of his that changed his life. He sounded so smart and strong. Given the age difference between them, she kind of brought him up. I remember her pride in him.
I never met him but I spent some very beautiful times with her. She cannot watch anybody being upset or unhappy, she would clown around till everyone smiled again.
Now I know that this inclination of hers must have become a necessity. I can almost see her trying and succeeding to look strong, while her heart is breaking again and again. I hear her attending dozens of phone calls explaining that yes, indeed, it is rare at that age to have a fatal heart attack. I see her organising the day-to-day lives of her father, mother and the young sister-in-law. Going through the motions of being in control while suspending her own share of mourning. She, who prided herself on her bohemian, disorganized lifestyle. She hated conforming; I am scared, now, she is doing it all.
The one consolation is that her dearest friend is with her. She is a great one for friends; glad she has the one she needs most with her now.
I ache for her and her family; I wish I could do something to help her through this pain. I wish I could just hug her and tell her everything will be alright (and mean it).