I called you, just like always. Your mom answered the phone, and asked to talk to my mom. She sounded tired. A few minutes later, she came upstairs to tell me that Nana was gone. We were only 11 years old.
At the funeral, I saw you. You saw me. You smiled. Your big blue eyes, filled with tears, you said, “Hi, Laura.” We hugged. It broke my heart. I cried so hard after we left.
There are thousands…tens of thousands, hundreds? of snippets of us together over 30 years. THIRTY. So many memories. Other than my family, I haven’t known anyone longer than I’ve known you.
A new snippet from today happened when you told me your mom, the one that shared the news of your grandma’s death with my mom, has just a short time to live. Your mom. The one that took us to Showbiz whenever we wanted to go. That bought us jelly shoes and iron on shirts at the mall. I was sitting on the stairs of the basement of the house that we will vacate tomorrow, watching my kids, your daughter’s friends (lifetime friends, just like us), play drums and guitar as you told me. Speechless. “I don’t even know what to say,” were the only words I had.