my first best friend

There was a knock at the door.  Followed by voices and then my Father calling my name.  Behind his legs I could see our very first visitors.  We’d just moved from our apartment to a house.  Our very first house with the biggest yard and the only basement, I’ll ever have. Standing outside was our neighbor and holding her hand was my very first best friend. 

That’s how I remember meeting Yvonne.  She was rambunctious, untidy, and rarely brushed her hair.  But her soul was warm and her spirit inspiring.  We spent our summers chasing fireflies and rabbits.  Our falls, putting potatoes bugs on the corn plants.  Our winters, making snow angels and getting each other sick.  And our springs were spent pulling tulips out of my Father’s garden to give to her Mother. 

On the day we packed our last boxes to move to California, Yvonne hid in their barn, refusing to say good bye.  We left.  And I never got to say goodbye. 

In essence, Yvonne had become the prototype for friends to come. Wonderful people with warm souls and inspiring spirits.  And a bit untidy.  But today, I miss her.