My best friend is leaving.
The woman that I routinely hung with during my "last year" of college ("last year" meaning taking a bare scattering of classes to say I was still in school, working a mindless cashiering job at a hippie co-op, and getting blasted pretty much every waking hour) is moving away.
We haven't lived in the same place in 4 years, but with only a 4 hour (3.5 when I drive; 3 with the hubs) car ride between us, we still see one another regularly. And now she is moving to L.A., and won't be a car ride away. She is leaving for this amazing opportunity, a dream, and I couldn't be happier for her, her talented husband, and their beautiful son.
This is the kind of friend that I can have months of silence with, but never skip a beat. This is the kind of woman that has seen a dark, dark side of me, and I her. This is a woman that I would do just about any-damn-thing for.
We have watched each other brave extreme heartaches; we have celebrated (oh, have we celebrated) the successes. We have fought each other; we have fought those around us together. We have laughed so much, that I think you could combine all the other laughs I've ever had in my life and they still wouldn't equal how much laughter we have shared.
She has taught me how to be strong, taught me how to be a better friend. She has taught me what "commitment" really means in a marriage. She has shown me what it is like to want something so badly only to be disappointed over and over again, all the time never giving up, and finally watching the miracle of hope and possibility happen.
She has taught me to be fearless.
I can't imagine right now--because it is hard to think about--how much, and in what ways, I am going to miss her. Sure, a plane ride from East Coast to West is nothing, and I know I will be a frequent, if not welcome, visitor to LaLa Land—not welcome to L.A. in general; welcomed by her, of course. But there is something about being close enough to get to someone in a relatively short time that makes it ok.
When my dad died, she came up that very day to see me, to take me away from the intense mourning of my family and friends, to release my heart from that vice-grip of agony, if only for a few hours. That is what I mean by a comfortable, easy distance.
When she went to the hospital, I was there the whole time, trying to keep a polite distance for her husband's benefit, ready to run the slightest little errand at a moment's notice.
I cried with her when her father passed, and celebrated with her when her son was born.
When my husband and I left her home last weekend, it was all I could do to not lose it. I didn't want to cry in front of her, because I could see she was treading the edge, and she hates crying in front of people. "Don't tell anyone I cried," she says.
And so I didn't. At least, I held it in until we drove out of sight.
I am really going to miss her.
