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By scqueen Date: 2005 Apr 13 Comment on this Work [[2005.04.13.09.30.8601]] |
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For Thomas and Olivia Her daddy always called her 'Princess'. He could say that word and the day's devilment would vanish like an aura rising up from her head. It would dissipate into a halo crowning her golden curls and settle in her portrait above the fireplace. She did have a title and a crown. She'd been chosen as our town's 'Little Miss' at the age of five. I hadn't known her then. We moved into the neighborhood a year later. She was such a rough-housing tomboy that I never could imagine how they got her to parade in front of an audience in a dress. But she had the angelic picture to prove it. Her combination of blonde hair and brown eyes was a striking one. She was a year younger than me but she was the leader. She was tall and ran wild like her Mama. She loved to swim and play in the mud. She would stir up a bee's nest and run, leaving me standing still in a swarm. She swung from ropes and inched her way across the neighborhood creek, belly first, on a fallen tree. She scooped up snakes and salamanders, collected bugs and caterpillars; all the while I watched intently, knowing that she had no fear. She was my heroine. Every envelope was pushed with a certain naiveté that always kept her out of serious trouble. She dominated the boys on her bicycle and planned picnics in the rain. We formed clubs, built forts, mixed potions, and turned cartwheels. We spent endless hours watching Star Trek, The Bionic Woman and Masterpiece Theater. She absorbed every television commercial word for word. She could dispense creativity in an empty space, even with a broken arm. As I approached seventh grade, she moved from the upstate to the coast. Her magic went with her. We'd always gone to separate schools so the days weren't as lonely. In evenings and summertime, I ached for her presence. Sitting on rooftops and playing dress up had lost all appeal. Instead, there were Junior High boys, dances, ballgames and cliques. She'd made new friends, and the cheerleading and basketball teams. I rode the five hour drive down with her father to visit once in awhile, for the next few years, usually for a weekend. We continued our duet of memory making, and passed hours recanting all of our adventures in a made-up game we called "Remember That Time". We grew apart in High School and College but never lost touch. She wasn't much on letters or calls; she'd just come to town unannounced. And it was the best. Now, we are both skidding towards forty, she in New York and me in California. We share a friendship that has needed few words between us. In the last six years we've spoken only on two monumental days. The first, after the birth of her son and the last, on September 11, 2002. Though I didn't have a current phone number, it only took me a few minutes to track her down. The voice I heard then was unmistakably vulnerable. She had driven her children to the New Jersey shore after the terrorist attack. Her husband was in a building's basement on Wall Street, alive and safe. I can only imagine her as a mother; a beautiful queen leading her own little prince and princess into a wondrously rich life. |