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My friend is on her way to Europe. She and her husband will spend the spring in Crete, Greece, and they are both very excited about it. They will spend a few days in Rome, Italy, a couple of days in Vienna, Austria, and will make a few other stops in other countries.
We drove by the house after another disappointing meeting with a landlord, who had answered our ad:
Three dogs are looking to rent a house.
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I have spent the last week arguing with myself because I can’t argue with my friend. Her mind is made up. She will not fight cancer.
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Last year, we received four Christmas cards, and two of them were commercial advertisements. I miss getting letters and cards in the mail. Nowadays, our mailbox is full of flyers and promotions, as well as chain letters, for millions of valued customers like us (who aren’t valued at all). It stinks!
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I am proud of my friend. When I describe her to other people, I often use my hands and show about 3″ between my pointer finger and thumb. “She is that big,” and I laugh. I don’t mean it disrespectfully, quite the opposite. My friend is petite and about 12 inches shorter than me.
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We have arrived at a place of togetherness, and we now have an understanding. We are one, inseparable. We are beautiful together. We belong together. My scar and I complete each other.
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When it happened I knew it would never be the same. We were not friends, just a group of older ladies who liked walking and hiking. We met once or twice a month and explored different areas together. Summer or winter, sunshine or snow, we enjoyed nature.
A little clip, just made for me, so I knew where to find the thank-you cards the seniors had crafted for us.
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I don’t know why I said it but I assume it has been on my mind and every year the voice inside me got louder. “I need to fix this!”