A face and a night that call me home

She walks in the door and I smile. She's the familiar face that has been in every single house I've ever lived in. My grin broadens as she walks toward me. She gives me her familiar smile and we reach for each other and hold on. It's the same hug I've been getting from her since high school only with much more meaning now, weighted by the passing calendar pages. I recall my yearbook and realize we meant it when we wrote, Friends 2-gether 4-ever.

We marvel at the lights and decorations in and around the restaurant. The sparkle of thousands of white lights shine in our eyes. We chose this spot for that very reason. We're happy; this is our night. We take our time. We talk of my father, of her mother. She tells me she understands and I know she does. We bring my Dad and her Mom to the present with our memories. I sit back and drink in her memories. She knew him when we were scolded for being late at my front door. She knew him when she hid in the closet because although I was home before curfew and she wasn't supposed to be there, we had every intention of going back out. And we did. She knew him when he called me Fink. I knew her when her mother sewed the most amazing clothes. I knew her when her Mom would ask to take our photos before we went out on a Friday night. We would squirm and complain. Yet, it's those photos we poured over tonight laughing and remembering.

I remember the kisses we stole, the lights we ran, the beers we drank, and the clothes we wore. I remember the fake ID's. The football games and the spirit. The boys we loved. Our happy hearts and our broken hearts. I remember the clubs we flirted our way into, and I remember the dance. I remember one foot in high school and one foot in college, not wanting to leave the former but excited about the future.

I remember the rent car I had in which she threw up her entire spaghetti dinner all over the back seat but I'm only mentioning that to make her gasp when she reads this.

After dinner, we go to my house and stroll through the photo album I started my senior year and finished three years later. It's falling apart and we handle each page gently and gracefully, turning them with the same care as if we were lifting a veil. We point and laugh at the photos, remembering every image captured. We call our friend. She's in California, thank God, so for her it's early enough. Ginny screams when she answers the phone. We scream back. (To think I never joined a sorority for this very reason and yet here I am screaming as if I'm wearing a skirt and knee socks and catching a first glimpse of Paul McCartney.)

It's good to see her on my couch squealing on the phone with our friend. Has the calendar turned its page? Has time moved forward at all? For a moment, it doesn't feel like it. It feels like holding my baby shoes. It feels like posing for a graduation photo. It feels like the impossible teenage crushes we had on boys we were too shy to speak to. Or like holding my breath while the bouncer studies my ID. It feels like the handwritten and xeroxed party invitations when someone's parents were out of town. It feels like the Open House my parents used to throw on Christmas Day, when we'd sneak a cup of the Fish House Punch and, as much as we wanted to like it and prove we were adult enough to enjoy the taste of alcohol, we'd still gag because we just were not there yet. It feels like exchanging five dollar gifts or hand-written notes. It feels like I could flop on my bed and call her if I had a bad moment, twisting the coiled phone chord in my hand and talking endlessly when I was supposed to be studying.

It feels just like home. Not returning there tonight, but being there tonight. And that? Well, that feels good.