THE WIND PHONE
The Final Words I Couldn’t Read
The words we left behind
Friday before last, already feeling guilty for letting another week go by, I stood in the neighborhood CVS card section reminiscing about my dear friend I’ve known since ninth grade — perusing the multi-level greeting card display for the perfect written sentiment to convey my thoughts.
Not one measly card seemed worthy of sending by snail mail and a stamp.
They were bland, generic, with a one-size-fits-all slant on human emotion. When did we become so shallow? My friend was a fellow wordsmith. She would appreciate me writing a better one myself.
Two weeks ago, her husband said it was the one thing she would enjoy when I asked if there was anything she needed in her new assisted-living senior apartment with round-the-clock care. Painful to think about my most vivacious, optimistic friend, bedridden.
We met in Mrs. Carol’s AP English class on the first day of high school. By recess, we were fast friends like we’d known each other all our young lives.
She introduced me to her best friend since kindergarten; I introduced her to mine since seventh grade. We became the popular girlfriend crew of four fashionistas — the envy of our peers.
