“Write a book. I’ll buy it.”

“What? No. Will you?”

“Of course, yes, Reeshy.”

That was two years ago.

I wrote something eventually and there is a book.

Celeste Phillips bought it.

Tonight, my kind friend rests in a morgue by herself. She's wrapped up like a gift for the other realm. Her wedding ring, still intact, represents a God-ordained purpose.

Family.

Celeste was a wife. A mother. A daughter. A sister, a sister-in-law, an aunt, a cousin, a niece, and a friend.

Her passion was journalism. In the last three years, she gave up her passion to be with her family. They were her entire world. Everybody who knew Celeste knew in a matter of minutes just how much her family meant to her. They are still her world.

Celeste was and still is extraordinary. Her boisterous personality and aura are still overwhelmingly present in her home. Her scent still lingers in her car. Orders that she placed before she died are resting in the bags that they have come in.

How can this be real?

Her last words seared into my memory.

“I miss you too… Birthday coffee?”

How? Why?

I am battling to think of my friend in the past tense. I cry for her husband and children. They will never again feel her embrace or hear her voice. How unfair. Mothers are not supposed to bury their children. It is supposed to be the other way around. Surely?

Life is so cruel, so unforgiving, so final.

Challenges in life are normal. But death isn't. It's torture.

Celeste has had her fair share of challenges in life, alright. But she's walked through them all with so much of grace. Her resilience over the years saw her giving me advice about being authentic and not giving a damn about what others thought about me. She would often encourage me when I wanted to have kids to write. To write about loss. To tell my stories and share my life. To think independently and to not be scared of life after divorce. She encouraged me to start a business. She would come to fetch cakes from me and challenge me to make new ones for her. Celeste was a class act.

We became friends through work in 2007. I was young and Celeste was experienced. She used to scold me when I spoke out of turn or wrote nonsense. She’d often read through the scripts and I’d hear her yell, “Fuck, man. This is kak!”

She never minced words.

She was kind too. Kind like Mother Theresa when it came to sharing food. She would dig in that bag of hers and whip out treats whenever, wherever. She always had something. Like before she even gave birth to Quinn, Celeste was a mother. She was that friend who would call you and make plans. And when the plans fail, make more plans until there was a coffee and cake scenario where even more plans were hatched. Through belly laughs and banter, Celeste thought of things way in advance.

I confided in her about so much because she was wise like Mr. Miyagi. I recognised this early. And it was her wisdom that kept me above water on days when I felt like I was sinking. She didn’t do elaborate things to make me feel better. She would choose good books and give them to me when she could. She would also speak to me at length and offer up sage advice. She gave me her time, even when she lived in Cape Town. She would regularly message to ask if I was okay. She would go on and say things like, “Reesh, I supposedly have missed a lot in your life. Are you okay?”

She invested in her friends. Pushed us. Pushed us to start things. She pushed us to connect. Celeste wasn’t shy to tell me when I was wrong nor was she ever one to hold her tongue when she was being treated unfairly.

She was vocal, she made me say ‘poes’ repeatedly one day. I almost choked. It was because I scolded her for using that word. (And I paraphrase below)

“It’s okay Reesh. It's okay.

A poes is a poes. There’s no other word for a poes. If you think someone is a poes. You must tell them. You’re a poes.

Say it!

POES.”

I was so horrified and Michelle Daniell and her burst out laughing. I am laughing now. But can you imagine this playing out in a newsroom?

When I think of Celeste, I will always remember her in this way. Jolly and full of cheeky energy. Her eye rolls, her hugs, her many book suggestions, her giving heart, her love of mugs and coffee, her obsession with online shopping, and utter and complete adoration and love for her family.

She lived. She lived until she couldn’t.

I am comforted knowing that she had such a strong faith. She had faith in her husband and would often tell me how blessed she was in the past three years. Her home renovations made her so happy and she adored the decorating and fragrance she provided to her household.

My friend’s testimony is powerful and it came to such an abrupt end on the last day of June. I don’t think any of us who love her are ever going to be the same again. You can tell the love barometer of someone when so many people have only good things to say about them when they're gone.

Life is undeniably hard. Unfair. And short.

So if you haven’t already, break open your potential and begin fighting hard for what you love. Don’t waste time. We don’t have tomorrow. If something is bothering you, raise it.

Don’t see where this goes. Don’t let things settle. Challenge. Fight. Hope. If you want something. Work towards it. Look after your body. Live outsides the lines. Do it again. Live. Love hard and let go when you are ready.

Celeste’s light on this earth is gone. My world seems dark.

This is the reality for a lot of us who knew and loved her. This woman, with a heart full of love, resilience, and hope - she fought for the life she wanted, didn’t bend, didn’t compromise, she didn’t waver.

She respected what she had and did what she could for the family that she loved so dearly.

I will miss her until the day I die.

And then we’ll have coffee in mugs laced with beautiful sayings.

“In the last days, the mountains of the Lord’s house will be the highest of all – the most important place on earth. It will be raised above the other hills, and people from all over the world will stream there to worship.” Micah 4:1-7

God rules!

**Please give Covid-19 the respect it deserves.