My best friend. The one who knows me and loves me anyway. I met her the day after Thanksgiving in 1985. I was loud, she was quiet. I was confident, she was shy. I had never been loyal to anyone. She was loyal to me. I revealed myself to her slowly, waiting for her to leave, to see her loyalty was wasted on me. She never got the message. She thought I was great. But, she made me great. Her expectations of me are always so high. I break my nails and bloody my knees trying to meet them. She met someone who wanted to be her best friend. He had to settle for being her husband instead. When I met someone who could handle me, she had to sign off on him. When people hurt her, I want to hurt them. When she was hurt badly, I thought the pain would kill me. I wanted fly to her, to be instantly by her side, to fix it. Instead, I sat on my back porch, and smoked and cried. I love her, I have to. She owns part of my heart. A very important part, a part I can’t live without. She has cared for it very carefully. I have tried to care for hers as carefully. I haven’t always been who I should be, who she deserves as a best friend, but I have loved her, every day, since the day after Thanksgiving, in 1985.
Happy Birthday, Prettyface. You are the best thing Sandy ever did, and the best thing that ever could have happened on August 16.
1 comment:
I had hoped that the person you are writing to/about would comment before I wrote anything. What a beautiful friendship.
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