Happy Birthday, Love.

I look at her across the table. The glow of the tea candle between us highlights her soft features and curtain of dark hair; I know this face so well.
My earliest memories of her begin with our desks arranged end-to-end in our third grade classroom at the small private school we attended. We shared the same love for Beauty and the Beast, and I remember the day that we both came to school toting the same lunch boxes, pink with Belle on the front.
She, with her terrible memory, does not remember this, but it’s okay – somehow my elephant memory and her forgetfulness balance our relationship, the same way that her head for numbers and facts and order balances my flighty, rather unkempt, highly emotional existence.
It’s the reason I feel completely comfortable asking her to open my bathroom cupboards, not because she won’t tell me that I’m a mess, but because I know she will. In fact, she’ll stand there with me and tell me what to toss and what to keep when my own obsession with beauty products rivals that of my mother’s.
We’re such opposites in some ways. She’s at ease in a kitchen surrounded by twenty other cooks and waitresses, and in the chaos she maintains a focus that produces finely crafted breads and cakes, the likes of which you’ll only find in artisan bakeries or her own mother’s oven.
I share her love for food and cooking, but in that same flurry of activity I’d be a basket-case; I have the scars to prove it. And while I can sit for days on end in front of my computer screen crafting essays out of words and blank pages (so long as the coffee and quiet hold out), she would be driven to madness within an hour’s time of being faced with that task.
And yet. We’re so compatible. There are few people in life that know the difference between stealing and sharing when it comes to a plate of food. We coordinate our orders at dinner to make sure we get the best of both worlds. On ritual Thursdays (movie + wine + dessert = weekly pre-weekend celebration) we can split a bottle of shiraz evenly, and we can split a box of frozen, store-bought cream puffs in one sitting and arrive at the same conclusion : good idea in theory, but let’s never do that again.
Our childhoods were similar in so many ways: we grew up in the same church, our parents were friends, and we each survived life with a pair of torturous younger brothers. We are the only sisters we have.
After nearly twenty years of this sister-love, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that she never left my side when mom died, and yet, as she walked into the room where my mother lay in her casket, tears sprang to my eyes,
You’re here,” I whispered.
Of course I am,” she whispered back, wrapping her arms around my neck.
That’s true love at it’s best. Surprisingly faithful, radically selfless, quietly constant, wholly unconditional. It needs no explanation, it carries no complaint. It bears all things willfully, and it communicates without words :
I will do the same for you.
Yesterday was her birthday, and what with her recent trip to Paris and my scant free time between work, writing, and art, I nearly forgot it. Thank God for my Google calendar. We did what we do best and made an impromptu dinner date, braved bumper-to-bumper city traffic to meet each other, and then there we were, splurging on steak frites and Sophie at Hopleaf.
You’re 26,” I say, raising my glass to toast her.
Wow. I am,” she replies.
We share that smile, the one that we’ve shared for a million milestones, big and small :
We’re growing up, but it’s our little secret.

The Hard Conversations.

I’ve written before about good conversations with close friends, but today I got to thinking about the hard conversations, the ones we seem to spend a lot of time and energy trying not to have.
As I scrounged late last night in frustration for one good thing to cling to on what turned out to be a rather horrid Monday, I remembered a conversation I had with one of my best friends earlier.
rachie and me
She had a wake to go to yesterday for a friend’s mother who passed away suddenly this week.
“Ugh. Funerals make me sad,” she said. “When I die, promise me you’ll celebrate my life and wear lots of bright colors, okay?”
“Will do! Please do the same for me… Is it weird that I sometimes hear songs and think ‘I want that played at my funeral?’” I asked, glad to finally confess this to someone.
“I totally do that all the time! And don’t worry, I’ve got you covered,” she replied.
“When I die, there should be karaoke, guitar hero, super bright colors and cake. Celebrate lives lived, not just the lives lost. Life is way too short, so go out and live it!” She soon posted on her Facebook status. Within minutes, several people responded with a ‘Like’ or comment in agreement.
“When I die, I want people to have a feast of scrumptious food and I want them to dance all night,” I told her.
We made a pact to write each other into our wills, to make sure that the other would be the “party planner” in the event of our death. Our initial brainstorms included a bachelorette party redux, but we thought the erotic cake might be a little over the top for our grieving relatives. We settled for posting pictures of good times we’ve had over the years.
As much as I hate to think of the death of someone who means so much to me, our conversation was the brightest part of my day. We always think that these are the things not to bring up, the things that don’t need to be discussed. [After all, we’re only in our twenties – who needs to think about dying yet…] But when you’ve had a crappy day at work, and you’re worried about money and bills and what your future holds, and you’re feeling the squelching pains of writer’s block, and you’re missing family so bad it hurts, do you really want to chat about the weather?
Sometimes, it’s the biggest sigh of relief, the deepest breath of fresh air to tell your best friend,
Yes. I will be there for you. Even then.
Suddenly, the thing you’ve been trying not to say or acknowledge, the really hard, awkward conversation you don’t want to discuss, turns out to be the only thing worth saying.
Don’t be afraid to say that one thing that might open the floodgate to admitting that life is hard and scary and short, and beautiful and joyous and worth celebrating, even as we say goodbye to it.
(Picture courtesy of the lovely Erin Lee, taken about a bizzilion years ago… or maybe only 5. I can’t believe it’s been that long! I love you, Rachie. <3)