It all began with a care package. You hadn’t even sent it to me, but I was so fascinated with the sundry items you sent my then-object of affection that I wanted to know more about you, this smart-crackin’ chick who was pals with my man. Often, girls in this position—the friend and the lover—become mortal enemies. Not us. I liked you straightaway. When I visited your city, you took me in as if I’d been a native there my whole life. We talked about going to Spain while I showed you the mittens I’d knitted. We got very drunk together, and I only do that with those I really like. I gave you a necklace I made, but you gave me so much more. I never know if you understand how much you meant to me during a very dark time. Instead of taking the obvious side, when things crumbled with the flawed man, you stayed in contact with me. At that time, I felt so abandoned and lost. You helped heal me by telling me none of it was my fault. Many people don’t possess that power. I truly think of you as one of my sisters in the world.
We’ve almost made out like twenty times, but it never happens. Maybe that’s just my perception. We’re both a little wild, a little unconventional. You go further than I do in that area. I’ve always thought we could get into some wicked fistfights if we wanted the action. Sometimes, you frustrate me because you always seem to be far away when I need you to be near, but this is the essence of your being. You mean no harm to anyone or anything. I end up learning about expectation and friendship through these tough lessons. I’m grateful that you’re whirling in the world with your lovely spinning kicks and pocket full of schemes.
Although you’ve never been to the desert, I am certain you’d fall in mad-love with the scent of creosote after rain and the way the cacti seem to be alive when the sun sets. Your ropes of dark hair would look ravishing with a cactus bloom in them. It’s my hope that we’ll take the pictures we’ve spoken of for years in the spring, when I am ready, when I can meet your potent energy with full-force. I don’t let many people take my picture because it feels like an invasion or violation, almost as if they are molding you to the image of what they see and taking something precious as they do that. It sounds strange, but that’s how I feel. I’d let you take any picture of me at any time. My trust and faith in you is enormous as the desert itself, which is my temple.
You vomited by the end of the first night we met. I jumped over a fire. While that should have been a bad omen of things to come, it turned out being a sign of a rich and good friendship. I’ve held your hair while you’ve puked, you’ve called with stable advice when I’ve been too wicked for my own good. You’re one of the rare people who knows of my secret affection for cheesy boy-bands (it ruins my street cred, you know?). It was a blessed wind that made you my neighbour, an even better one that allows you to remain a confidante, years after.
I’ve never known fully where I stood with you and that sometimes unnerves me. Maybe it’s the sense that I don’t measure up to the others you know, as you are effusive in your praise of them and more sparing when you ladle it to me. Perhaps it’s that I haven’t earned it. My over-a-decade friendship with you, however, fills me with an immense satisfaction. Seeing the direction your life has taken fills me with a huge, eye-crinkling pride. You used to write about yourself as a girl, and I always felt you were diminishing yourself when you did that. Darling, you’re all woman now. The girl exists only in the shadows because you were always too beautiful and too wise to hide behind that label forever.
You knew me when I was roadkill after an abusive situation that nearly killed me and then, when I pulled myself out of the ditch, scraped myself off the pavement, and started living again. I have a hard time with people knowing my secrets and vulnerabilities. It gives me a sense that I could be cornered or those things used against me. You’ve been a stable confidante and friend. Now that you’re a father, I find myself touched by your devotion to the family and wife that you were looking for so long, but that I always knew you’d one day have.
You’ve influenced me in larger and greater ways, than even you, with your all-seeing eyes, can ever know. You picked my favourite number, 8, which is like infinity standing up. Although I’m uncertain of what fabric the future will unfurl, I hope that you’ll always be a part of mine. Even when we were more of acquaintances, you knew me well, and I suspect that’s because you look at the world with eyes wide open, arms flung in an enormous arc. You’re a grizzly bear of a man with a rolling thunder voice and a fire-baked clay heart, one of my very best friends. When I lived in the high desert, I used to drive to a secluded little road (the reception at my house) on Sunday nights so that I could listen to your blues radio show. I miss those nights of desert stillness and your voice filling my car, bigger than the blue night. You never even knew that you were my indigo lifeline, my Harley poet, my mentor and teacher.
(I hope you’ve heard the Paul Hardcastle song “19” to understand why I giggled when I saw your number.) You’re a genuinely decent person, and I don’t use that phrase lightly. You’re hopeful and connected to your family and childhood places in a way that makes you very touching and sincere. Your writing will take you to better places when you’re able to cast those bindings aside and find something a little more gritty in life. It’s been missing that element, but not the passion that I so admire you for.
You’ve been one of the most supportive people of my written work and artwork. I haven’t always known how to handle it because I’ve often felt undeserving of your admiration. My feet aren’t just clay; my whole body is something too flawed and maleable to be worshipped. You have one of the best bells I ever carved, and I’m so glad that it resides with you because I know you’d really appreciate it. You’re unassuming about your own abilities, but I’ve always learned from your positivity and can-do attitude. I hope that one day I’ll make more bells to hang in your home.
You make every situation you enter better. More people should be like that. I have to be on my toes to have a conversation with you because you know your shit, son. You’re knowledgeable about a range of topics, but not a wanker about your mad brain-flow. Again, more people should take a cue from you on that one. You make what is a very stressful workplace less aggro with your easy smiles, interest in everyone, and ability to throw salt on every proverbial fire. You’re tremendously talented, and probably under-appreciated, but you don’t let it get to you, cat. World, take note.
