Sunday, April 29, 2012
Friend nodded, opening her mouth to speak before frowning, her attention directed off to the side of the wall behind me.
"Wow," she declared. "Those mattes are really ragged, aren't they?"
"Oh," I beamed proudly, glancing back to behold them. "I did those myself."
"Really," she offered, rolling her eyes and returning to her original reply.
So we talked about what was going well now - how Adam is once again pleased and I have managed to show up - every day - and work - all day - when for the last 12-18 months, I found that all but impossible.
We've discussed career goals and when it's our fault versus the people who pay us. Life plans and the meaning of happiness. Death and dying. The ability to cope.
"They complain about me on bitbook," she sighed on our way home from the mall. We'd shared snacks at Cheesecake Factory, bringing dessert home, and selected items at Lush. "The stores are closed, they say. My roommate smells like cheese, they whine. I want to sell books and you make me work at the sushi shop." She shook her head at her iPhone and I giggled as I navigated the rainy-day traffic. "I'll go ahead and restock their stores."
And it's what makes Friend perfect. There is a balance of expectation of my best self and acceptance of my current self. Moments of profound brilliance contrasting against Tiny Tower strategy.
And whether we're sitting diagonal from each other in my living room or side by side in the car or across from each other at restaurants, there's comfort. The gentle sense that even as things change - when we see each other annually rather than daily - there's a continuity that soothes.
We're hurting, Friend and I, as her mom is gone and dad's health uncertain. As my parents struggle with oncology treatments. So, were you to peek in on our weekend, you're as likely to find us brushing away tears as laughing over stories, sniffing at bath products or taking photos of flowers.
But I'm grateful - so grateful, really - that she offered to come and my parents insisted I let her.