Why do I feel the need to cover God's eyes?

I’ve often wondered what God must think about the terrible suffering and indescribable loneliness that is everywhere on the earth. When I was about sixteen, I went to visit my grandparents in Toronto. While I was there, I visited the downtown core for the first time. Being a country girl, this was extraordinary! So many buildings close together and practically touching the sky. The number of people walking around was astounding! I had never seen so many people in one place before, except for that time when I visited New York City on a class trip the year before. All I remember from the streets of NYC was the necessity of watching the classmate in front of you, desperately trying to avoid getting jostled and carried away by the surging tide of humanity. In Toronto, there was just enough space between the living and moving bodies to take in your surroundings. I did that and was amazed.

On the streets of Toronto, I saw, for the first time, men sitting on street corners. They were literally surrounded by thousands upon thousands of indifferent faces every day. All those moving faces were blank and completely focused on where they had to go, the next deadline that was due, how long their lunch break was, or how much longer before heading home to who-knows-what. But those men sitting on the street corners were begging for change, playing guitars or saxophones in order to attract loose coins from a busy person’s pocket, or carrying placards that explained their need for food, money, or something to help them survive. No matter who they were or what they were doing to get their money, there was always something I noticed. A deeper plea emanated from their eyes, which held a piece of the person’s soul. Their plea was for someone to take notice. Yeah, they wanted money for something. But deep down, perhaps deeper than they realized, was a cry for one person out of the thousands to look them straight in the eyes, to nod their head, maybe to smile. Something to show that poor person (literally poor) that they were a somebody. Anything to make braving the elements for the purpose of survival worthwhile.

I read Mother Theresa’s book Loving Jesus once. It was sitting on my Mom’s side table and I picked it up. Couldn’t put it down after that! When reading it, I felt that same tug in my heart that I felt when I saw those men on the street corners of Toronto. Mother Theresa wrote of people sick with AIDS on the streets of Calcutta. Everyone knows the story of AIDS victims. This disease destroys a person. Utter pain from every possible spot on their body. A complete and total physical suffering. In India, these people are left to die on the streets as outcasts. First, they die from the loneliness of abandonment; then, the physical disease consumes their bodies.

One of the stories she recounts is of when she found such a man on the streets and brought him into her house. He was more dead than alive, completely covered in sores. Mother Theresa looked into this man’s eyes and told him: “I see Christ in you.” She then proceeded to bathe him with love, anoint his sores and bandage him with tenderness, lay him down in a corner of a room filled with other "Christs", and tuck him into bed like a mother’s child. Before she could leave, the man reached weakly for her arm and smiled a real smile back at her. He whispered to her: “Because you found Christ in me, I can find meaning in my suffering. Now I can find Christ in me!” He died that night, but with the knowledge that one small woman cared enough to take care of the least wanted person in society.

A couple years ago, I was walking downtown on my way to Mass. I passed a homeless man sitting beside the entrance to the church begging for spare change. I didn’t have any money to give, but I didn’t want to walk straight by him without acknowledging him. Besides, somehow I felt that it would be hypocritical of me to walk into a church without showing such a person that I do care. I simply looked into his eyes and nodded my head, smiling at him as I would any person trying to get my attention. I walked by him and into the church. After Mass, the same man was sitting by the entrance begging for money. But when he saw me, he called out to me. I admit this made me slightly apprehensive; however, I acknowledged that I heard him. Before I could assure him I didn’t have any money to give, he held out a paper for me.

“Here, miss” he said. “I wrote this. I thought you might like it.” The homeless stranger had written a poem, and he gave it to the person who noticed him.

Perhaps I flatter myself. Maybe he had gone to a printing office, photocopying two hundred pages of his poem. Perhaps he had handed them out to 199 people and I just happened to be the last person who passed him that day. Maybe every person walking into the church had smiled at him, maybe even shook his hand and told him to have a good day. I’ll never know. But I did smile.

Funny how those smiles can easily make someone’s day. Walking to the shopping mall on another busy afternoon, I passed the usual group of homeless smokers sitting on the sidewalk and begging for change. Grubby, some scrawny and unhealthy-looking, they all huddle in a group until people walk by. Then they all hold out their cups or one person will boldly walk up and ask for bus fare. I mentally prepared for this, walking by them without really paying attention. Besides, I was one of a crowd and nobody was making eye-contact. If I looked ahead, at the people driving by on the opposite side, at the business around me, anywhere but at this group of beggars, I would not be noticed by them.

Suddenly, an older man called out from the crowd. “We just want a smile from you, miss!” He said it with a grandfather-like expression on his face, as if knowing perfectly well what had gone through my head. I looked up, caught off guard, and gave him a genuine smile before continuing on my way. He nodded his head and smiled back, then reached his cup out to the next person. Funny how these things happen. Just a smile!

But what about God’s eyes? In the beginning there was light and darkness, land and water, birds and fish, animals of all kinds with the same number of tiny colourful insects covering the space of the earth, and man. God rested on the seventh day, acknowledging that the world was good. If I were to sit back and rest on the seventh day of my week, what would I see? I walk down the street by my house and see homelessness, alcoholism and drug abuse, crowded buses full of people with their noses either in their cell phones or buried deep within their inner thoughts and problems. All very important, of course! I see emptiness and frustration. People are running late, others are running away. People are going to work long hours in an office, others are rushing home from those long hours to take care of ungrateful spouses and children with running noses, maybe even sitting in front of a television screen.

One day I was waiting for a bus in a station crowded with people. One girl and her boyfriend caught my attention. This girl was perhaps no more than seventeen. Both she and her boyfriend had their hair done up in a strange style that looked more like a mess than anything. But it is a style, and I won`t judge them. For some reason, I was drawn to the girl. Her boyfriend was speaking sharply; then ignored her completely. The girl was glancing skittishly around her, standing close to the young man. The girl’s arms were bare, but covered in scars and fresh scratches. I knew what that meant. I had a friend who cut her arms up. It would stop the pain that her soul caused her. When the girl sat down in the bus, I happened to look into her eyes. They were empty.

What if I walked down the halls of my university? I see posters that degrade human dignity at all stages of life; I hear stories of people who do not understand what life holds for them and cannot understand living any of it much longer; I watch as lonely soul after lonely soul walks past hundreds of people who do not see them. They say God is always with us. So that means He walks beside me down those halls. He sees them. He hears them. Does He cry?

Did Superman have a lot of friends? Maybe if he had a facebook page, he would have had millions of viewers “like” his page. Maybe he would even have over 1000 friends on that page. But a facebook friend is not really a friend. Not someone who will stand by you when you laugh and when you cry, who will study silently with you and help you get a good grade, then go out and laugh until both your sides hurt. I know people who are extremely excited to get 667 friends simply because it prevents them from having an unlucky number sitting on their page. But in reality, that is, once out of a virtual world, how many of those friends are close? How many of those people do you really get to invest time in and learn their stories? Friendship is about sharing, giving something of yourself to the other. It isn’t about numbers. I think we have forgotten that. 

But back to Superman, if he were to exist, what makes him super? Saving people from physical calamities only to return them to a lonely world is not very heroic, at least in my understanding. Although it may be important. I see heroism in men and women who invest their time in making friendships that last. Friendships that teach others how to love and be loved. Friendships that erode the loneliness of our culture. These people are supermen and superwomen.

I heard a story of a woman who was struggling with the embarrassment of having her young child fuss, and sometimes cry, throughout Mass. You know those buildings with high, arched stone ceilings that collect the echoes of the voices below and bounce them around against everyone’s ear drums? For some reason, babies love these buildings. They can shout and make funny sounds and listen to the magnificence of their voice. Their voices are suddenly powerful and interesting, which is fascinating to a child but traumatizing to a poor mother who suffers from the annoyed glances of people who do not understand children. It was just such a situation, where the child fussed more during Mass because he was sure everyone could hear him. An older lady saw this mother struggling. After Mass she handed the mother a note, smiled gently, then left the building. The mother didn’t get a chance to read the note until her child was strapped safely in the back car seat of her van.

Thank you for bringing your child with you today. He is the future.

I don’t know if these women ever met each other again. But that mother was proud of her child and no longer worried about what people thought. After all, her kid was just being a kid. At least one woman had understood.

The world needs more little deeds to be shown that bring love, joy and peace to everyone. Let the ripple effect take place. Touch all your friends with love, then they can touch all their friends, and so on. It will spread. One person at a time. In order for this to happen, despite feeling the need to cover God’s eyes from the lack of goodness in His creation, I think He has to be able to see in order to guide our world back to the good that it started out with (and which still exists).

Guest Blog

This week, I decided to skip posting my usual chapter from "A Box of Memories." Instead, I am very excited to direct people to a friend's blog: Of Kings and Cabbages. You can check out the link here: http://ofkingsandcabbages.wordpress.com/ The reason for this change in venue is because I was asked to be a guest blogger and my post was published there today. So I am very excited! It is called "Silence." (Here's the link, just in case you are interested in checking it out: http://ofkingsandcabbages.wordpress.com/2014/02/18/silence/)

So that is my post for the week. Thanks for checking in! :)

Public School - Memories of a School Girl

It was my first year in a public school. I had been homeschooled a couple years before this and had been in a Catholic elementary school before that. A public school meant no mentioning the name of God because all religions have to be welcomed and understood. A public school meant different cultures mixed and playing together without asking questions, although culture was often used as an excuse to get away with or do certain things. Rules were different in the public school, although I was too young to really care about the difference. At that age, I was a “goody-two-shoes” in school anyway; it didn’t matter whether I was in the Catholic system or the public system.  

     

I remember my teacher. He went by Mr. V. So I don’t remember what his name was. He was my favourite because he was tall and gave me piggybacks at recess. He also always had a newspaper in his hand, and would walk around with it rolled up in his hands, as if it were a weapon. But every kid loved him, at least in my grade. He was actually a supply teacher because the real grade 4 teacher was at home with a new baby. I think she finished the year with us, but I don’t remember her. She didn’t make any impression on me. Mr V. did.

            

I loved him. In class, he always talked about important things at the beginning, but by the end of the day we were all playing games in order to learn our multiplication tables or our spelling words. Number and letter games are fun when you are in grade 4. Actually, I loved Mr. V. so much that I worked especially hard at memorizing my multiplication tables, just so I could impress him.

           

In my room at home, there was a section of the carpet that had been torn near the door. Underneath, there was a square tile pattern that I remember well because it helped me memorize those tables. I could step forward one square if I got one right, but I had to step back if I got one wrong. I imagined the squares going all the way down the hallway and up to the far wall in my room. I would start on the squares by my door and move forward or backward accordingly. I rarely went into the hall after the first few tries. Always forward. I was pleased with that, and so was Mr. V.

           

At recess, there was a young boy that I had a lot of fun teasing. His name was Hassan. I don’t know why, but we would tease each other a lot at recess. Then he would chase me around the playground. It happened every recess. We would start teasing each other; he would get mad; and he would chase me around, while I screamed and laughed hysterically. But secretly, I remember being afraid that if he actually caught me he’d beat me up. When he started getting closer, I would run to Mr. V. and hide behind him. Mr. V. would wave his newspaper at Hassan. Then Mr. V. would give me a piggy back. Was I a bully to do this? I know that it wasn’t my intent to bully at the time. It was all in good fun. In class, Hassan and I got along; on the recesses when Mr. V. stayed inside the school, Hassan and I stayed on opposite sides of the playground.

           

I got in trouble once, although I cannot remember what I did. All I remember is the humiliation of standing against the wall and the fear that Mom would worry when I didn’t get home on time. You see, my sister and I would walk home from school together through the subdivisions behind our house and along a slightly isolated path (relatively speaking, compared to the rest of the neighbourhood). It was always a little scary walking to and from school alone. Usually friends walked home with us.

            

But one day, I was in trouble and had to stand with my face to the wall until all the kids had left the playground. Then I could go home. I wasn’t the only one doing this. There were a couple other kids. But I was scared out of my mind. When the lady said I could go, I ran as fast as I could to get home. I ended up getting home at the same time as my sister, who had been walking very slowly with her little backpack hanging low down her back. Mom never knew that I had been in trouble. At least I think that is the case.

            

I had many friends. One girl in particular, who lived just a few houses away from mine, was someone I really admired. She was taller than me and the most popular girl in our grade. She was funny and had lots of friends. She was cool. One day she showed me a ring that one of our friends had given to her. It was really pretty and looked like real diamonds (although I think it was made of plastic). That day at recess, these two girls had a huge fight in the playground and swore they would never speak to each other again. Our friend demanded her ring back.

            

After recess, my popular friend came to me and told me to keep the ring in my bag for awhile. Just after I slipped it in my bag, the owner of that ring came up to us with a teacher behind her, again demanding the ring. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. I stood quietly behind the two girls, who were loudly fighting again, and listened. When the teacher discovered that both girls were saying they did not have the ring, she turned to me and asked me if I had it. I have never been able to lie, especially when it is obvious I would be in the wrong to do so. I didn’t answer; I just reached into my bag. The teacher took the ring and none of the girls got it. But I suffered from this little honest action. My popular friend gave me a glare I have not forgotten, as it cut me to the quick. She grabbed her bag and coat and left the school. The teacher called after her, but she didn’t turn back once. She left the property and didn’t come back to school for a few days. It was many weeks before she actually started talking to me again. Funny how I remember this!

           

There was a boy in grade 6 who always went to the far end of the soccer field and would sit by himself, holding his head in his hands. I liked to watch him because he was a big kid who was not afraid to be alone. I loved being alone. Also, he was always in my favourite spot: a small copse of trees with a large rock in the middle, next to the fence at the back of the soccer field. My friends and I used to always go there to talk. But near the middle of the year, this boy always took our spot, and I stood at a distance watching him. Wondering what was going on.

           

One day, he stopped coming to school. He was not on the rock at the back of the playground, holding his head in his hands. Inside the school, everything was quiet and sad. There were teachers crying in the hallways. Someone mentioned “funeral,” “peaceful” and “surrounded by his family.” School then went on as usual, with all the kids going back to their lessons or games. But I remember. It was my first brush with death, and that sort of thing is not easily forgotten. At least, not for me!

          

Other memories cry loud and strong in the back of my mind. Memories from that one year in a public school. In my French class, we learned the names of sandwich ingredients. Basically, what could possible go inside of a subway sandwich? Now say it in French. I had the brilliant idea that I would go home and make the tallest sandwich in the world. I would eat the whole thing, and it would be delicious! I told my friend Heather. She was very excited, and decided to go home and do the same thing. That night, Mom said I could make my own snack. Perfect! I opened the fridge, anticipation and excitement at an all-time high. What would I put into my sandwich? The picture of all those deli meats and cheeses and bread slices and sauces was still clear in my mind, making my mouth water.

            

It was a full minute of staring in the fridge before I actually reached for anything. I suddenly had the realization that it would not be as easy as the picture had suggested. There were only two kinds of deli meats in the fridge: chicken and ham. There was only one kind of cheese: cheddar. There were several sauces: ketchup, mustard, relish, salad dressings and vinaigrettes, BBQ sauces, and so on. But I only liked ketchup. There were many vegetables: peppers, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and so on. But those were not appealing either. Besides, they were a little more wilted than the ones in the picture had been.

            

I slowly closed the fridge and assessed what I had. A slightly squished hamburger bun, a bottle of ketchup, two packages of deli meat, and a block of cheddar cheese. Maybe I could add some butter? My mile-high sandwich turned out to be a regular sized lunch. It didn’t taste the way I had imagined it would, either. But it was an experience that got stored away in the files of my memory.

            

There are other memories from that year. I remember secretly listening to the Spice Girls with some friends one late summer night. My parents had forbidden us from doing that. I remember because of the guilt. Interesting! I remember our neighbour’s grand-daughter, who was not old enough to talk a lot, but young enough to still have that sense of wonder in absolutely everything. I used to wonder how her mother could have so much patience! Little Julia only said, “What’s that?” to absolutely everything she passed in her stroller. I remember the little park in the center of the court too. We would run there and play in the sandbox, on the swings, or in the little fort beneath the slide structure. It was a log cabin, and we would gather grass seeds and tall weeds and hang them in the rafters all the time, pretending we lived in the Little House on the Prairies. I also remember bouncing a basketball around and around the block, driving all the neighbours crazy as I talked to myself, making up stories, bouncing the ball to the sound of my voice. They must have thought I was crazy!

I remember that one little apple tree, perfect for climbing, in our block. It was a favourite place for me and my brothers and sisters, as we could climb high and hide among the leaves, pelting crab apples at people walking by, or laughing at the neighbours who could not see us but suspected we were there. Once, a lady came out and screamed at us, ordering us out of the tree and back home. We went because it sounded like she would kill us. Within minutes, our Dad was telling the lady off for being rude and denying children the right to climb the only tree in the neighbourhood. At least by doing that, we were not getting into trouble. Of course, we smiled sweetly at the lady and proceeded to climb back up to our nests.

As you can see, the public school didn’t really change me. I doubt it really made an impact for better or worse. But the memories definitely did! Memories tend to add to the person you were, are, and will become. Memories from the public school filled a file in my brain; a memory file. It’s still there, and (barring Alzheimer's) it always will be.

Do You Remember?

     A childhood friend of mine got married in June. Our parents met and became friends when I was three years old, and she was two. From then on, our parents remained excellent friends, and this girl and I saw each other very frequently. Growing up, we were best friends and practically inseparable. As teenagers, this friendship went a little to the wayside, and eventually her family moved to another country for a few years. Now the family is back and our parents are in contact again, but she stayed behind and has begun to build a family of her own.

            I didn’t go to her wedding. Life was busy on my end and money would have become a significant issue. But I thought a lot about our childhood. We did absolutely everything together, and I came up with many significant memories that I am sure she also holds dear today.

            Our families would get together frequently for dinners and such, but each time the two of us somehow thought that a sleepover was the only real way we could have the most fun together. She grew up in Quebec, which meant we had to cross the bridge from Ontario in order to get to her house. It felt at times like another world. She had a huge in-ground pool. I loved pools as a kid, especially the huge ones. This one had a diving board, and we would swim for hours and do all sorts of pre-Olympic tricks off the board. But every time, at the end of the visit when our parents were beginning to say their goodbyes, my friend and I would run into a corner of her property and put our heads and hearts into praying that our parents would agree to a sleepover.

            Both of us grew up with the knowledge that prayer is important, that God always hears our prayers, even if He does not always answer them the way we want Him to. My friend and I were convinced that if we prayed, God would convince our parents. However, we somehow knew that we needed to put forth some sort of an effort on our part in order to get exactly what we were hoping for. Both of us knew the “weak spots” of our parents. We knew exactly how to ask and when the perfect opportunity was.

We almost always had our sleepovers.

            I remember one year both our families went to a family camp. The campground was located on a forest in front of a lake or some sort of river front. We had to walk through another campground in order to get to the actual beach. We were fairly young. Maybe ten or eleven. One night our dads took all of the kids to the beach after dinner and we stayed there until dark, swimming and playing in the water to our hearts’ content. On the way back, we all piled into the trunks of the two vans and swung our legs over the edge as they slowly drove us home. I think we were singing all sorts of “Sound of Music” songs. Julie Andrews was our favourite.

            Or what about that crazy adventure that our dads planned to scare us all out of our wits. All in good fun of course. I don’t remember why exactly they did it. All I remember is they took us into the woods after dark. They used flashlights and were talking to themselves about all sorts of creepy things. I vaguely remember them stopping nervously when twigs snapped somewhere nearby.

            There was an abandoned cabin close to the waterfront. It was unlocked. I have no idea why we never noticed this before. But inside there was a lot of storage covered in huge white sheets, and the building itself was very old. It was like something out of a movie. All of a sudden, something underneath one of the sheets in the corner moved. All of us screamed and ran out. Now that I think of it, I have no idea if our dads were laughing or screaming, but they ran out behind us anyways. Do you remember?

            We kept walking through the woods as if nothing happened. I just remember being terrified but extremely curious. We came across another cabin, much smaller and more dilapidated than the first. (Did you ever wonder why these cabins were there?) It had graffiti all over it. Our dads told us a story about a little girl who was kidnapped and hidden in this cabin. The graffiti was her warning to any other children passing by; the broken windows and overturned furniture were from her many attempts to escape. I think at one point your dad disappeared, only to reappear and try to freak us out later on. Both of them were laughing. Somehow, I think the whole thing was a joke. 

            We were probably seven or eight years old, maybe nine, when our families went to another camp. It was basically a farm with smaller cabins. There was a swimming pool behind the main house. That’s where Richard lived. He was so nice, and he always played games with us. I think his job was to take care of the property, because I only remember him cutting the grass with his lawn mower.

This of course is an important detail. You see, my friend and I loved sugar. What kid doesn’t? After one of Richard’s stories, he took a box of sugar cubes out of his room and gave us one each. I had never seen a sugar cube before, and it was so good I just had to have another one. Were you with me that day when we decided to sneak one or two from his room? I just remember looking out the window and seeing him on his lawnmower. We were safe. We snuck into his room and found the box in his top dresser drawer. With a handful of sugar cubes each, we were all set. We fled from the scene. Of course, neither of us thought about the obvious evidence left behind…two or three rows of sugar cubes gone from the box is surely noticeable. He never said anything to us though, although he never offered us more sugar.

 My family moved to the country when I was nine. My friend and I continued to see each other, although not as frequently, since we lived further apart. But her family always came to our house and slept over on Canada Day. In our backyard, we put up tents and the girls would sleep in one, the boys in another. Our goal was to stay up all night. I was desperate to see the sun rise and be able to boast that I had stayed awake all night. This remained our ambition at all our sleepovers.

We worked out shifts. Two at a time had to stay awake for an hour while the others slept, only to be up an hour in turn. This worked for a couple hours, but eventually we were all asleep when the dawn arrived. Except once. We were in the screened-in-porch behind my house. We had managed to stay awake until about 5am, playing Indian poker and all sorts of silly games. We were safe outside because our parents couldn’t hear us. In the house, we would always be told to keep our voices down, which made staying awake harder. At least that night, we only annoyed the neighbours, not our parents.

But at the end of that night, I remember the sky turning pink. I think you had fallen asleep. Actually the others had too. For some reason I think I was the only one awake. It was a surreal moment. I saw a beautiful blue heron fly over the property and settle in the neighbour’s backyard. There was a gentle mist over the field, the trees were barely moving; everything was still. I heard the first bird wake up and give its little trill. Then I fell asleep for a couple hours. But I had made it to the dawn. I was pleased.

I lived on a three acre property; big according to my standards, but not as big as the neighbouring 76 acre property. Still, there were two acres of forest that were mine. I call it mine because I made it mine. I knew the property like the back of my hand. There were trails and a small hut my dad had built at the back. There was a tree fort in the front. A true tree fort; the kind that requires a ladder to get into; that is built with four walls and a roof; that has a floor you can stand on without falling through; that is in a tree. It was our very own tree fort. My siblings and I loved it. The woods had something comforting and soothing about it that every kid dreams of, that most kids read about, that few kids have. But I had it.

We both loved Anne of Green Gables, my friend and I. Anne had named all the places she loved: Lover’s Lane, the Lake of Shining Waters, the Haunted Wood. My friend and I decided one day to name things in my forest. There was an arch made from a fallen tree, with moss growing all over its ancient trunk. It looked like a fairy arch. It sounded like one too, with all the chickadees flocking about it and making their little music. (Do you remember?) I think we called it Chickadee Arch. We weren’t very original.

Or the sand bridge. It was right in the middle of the trail. It had originally been a major dent, which became a swamp most times of the year, and was only passable during the summer or if you owned a pair of rubber boots. My dad built the bridge with wheelbarrows of sand, piles of old rocks from a garden that we rebuilt, damaged books and magazines that were not worth keeping, and all sorts of odds and ends (all environmentally friendly, of course). Each week, my dad, one of my brothers, or myself would cut the grass throughout the one acre of forest-free land we had. This took a couple of hours each Saturday. The other kids had to rake up the grass clippings, and fill up the wheelbarrow. Each week, the sand bridge took shape, as grass pile after grass pile filled in the spaces. Then we covered it with sand and had our bridge. I think my friend and I were the ones who named it “the sand bridge.” Perhaps so we could remember the name. Again, not very original. But there it was all the same. The swamp was still there, but the bridge made it passable.

We had a secret garden. My mom called it that. It was literally secret in the summer because big trees arching over the opening made it difficult to see from the house. Inside, it was basically a sand pit surrounded by a garden that took care of itself. It was full of tiger lilies and poplar trees, surrounded by the forest. One of the trails in the woods led into it; another came from the actual lawn, but was hidden from view. As kids, we played in the sand with toy dump trucks and tractors. The sand hole was deep, and we would bury each other to the waist. We did that a lot until someone lost a boot and we had to get dad to help us find it. As we grew older, it remained “the secret garden;” the hole remained untouched, surrounded by plastic trucks and pails; but it was our sanctuary, and a secret one. I would go there and listen to the wind. When my friend was with me, we would listen to the wind together, sharing our secrets with nobody to hear us.

My friend is married now, but I know she remembers. I was going to tell her all about these memories I had found in a side folder in my brain, but I think it is easier to write it down and have her come across it in print one day. She has a similar side folder somewhere. I’m sure she takes it out once and awhile and looks it over, as I do. Both of us loved stories, and I think we both still do. What better way to be part of a story of friendship; two lives making way for each other, remembering, even when life takes us elsewhere.