For reasons of therapy, my husband recently asked me who my best friends are. The question surprised me, because I’m a woman in her fifties. Best friends? Do people still do that?
And then I realized that while I have friends who are tremendously dear to me, and favorite people, and ones I turn to first in crisis and joy, Best Friend was reserved for the one who was my Best Childhood Friend.
And Wednesday was her birthday. I thought of her all day. I didn’t call or even text her. I didn’t take her to lunch. I didn’t drop a gift at her house. She passed away years ago, when she was forty-one. Way too early. Way too young.
I took the day off from work on Wednesday. Not specifically in honor of the friend, but with her on my mind and in my heart. I let the memories come (sometimes they flow and sometimes they trickle). I thought about funny kid-stuff we used to do. I thought of how often I was a medium-lame college friend, and it was always great but not often enough when I’d plan a get-together. I did a little better when we lived in the same state as adults, and that we did cross-state visits when we didn’t. When we were back within a hundred miles of each other, she was the Number One person I’d drop in on with a hot-off-the-press copy of my new books.
She was by far the best of us. Bright and gifted, with a smile that showed all her teeth. She was joyful and tender and forgiving. Her heart grew bigger and wider and deeper throughout her life.
I am so lucky to have had her in my life. We did silliness together. And she was the one I called (two time-zones away) when my mom died. She loved my kids and I love hers. Her grace was a lesson for me and I hope I learned from it. She was a gift.