Older and wiser

Sitting across from her, I know her, know the sparkle in her eyes, the movements of her hands, the way her hair falls across her brow. I've recognized her beauty since she was 21. I've known our friendship like a ribbon in my hair. But her grief is her own. Lucy had been her best friend, pal, furry confidant for 17 years. Last night I wanted to spend time with her, wrap my heart around her sadness. Be there for her, talk about Lucy memories.

It was that. But more.

We took it as something between a launching pad and an anchor. Like a hammock between two steadfast points, we settled in. We lit the candles for Lucy and Thunder, as we said we would. All across the country, flames flickering at 9:00.

We talk around the flames. We harbor faith, suffer arguments, stand tall. We recognize what led us to our steadfast ways, and we spend much of the night bleeding for others, arguing on behalf of friends we're not sure can argue for themselves. I hang on to memory; she clings to faith. It's hard to defend our friends, hard to carve out the soft spot in our hearts, put it on the table and say, This is what I've come to know, versus, It shouldn't matter if it's unconditional.

I'm tired of unconditional. I've come to believe that love is and should be with conditions. At least a few.

I'm tired of playing martyr to saints who will never gain wings. Is there something to be said for believing in what people say? Or are we to spend our time reading the fine print of behavior written between the lines of promises?

We sit like two Xs and Os on a tic-tac-toe board. It's not about strategy, it's about expressing the lessons. Same people, same story told, different lessons drawn. We've known the cast of characters as long as we've known each other. Neither is handicapped; neither is blind.

At the moment, both seem to hang on a thin fiber of belief. The truth is that the fiber I hang to is thinner than the one she grips.

Her arguments float across the space between. I listen, interrupt, argue my point. I remember that the reason why I'm with her tonight is to comfort her, love her over the loss of Lucy. It hits me that perhaps I'm here is to be near the lessons she has to give.

It will be midnight soon, but I won't pass through the change in time without wisdom. Or at least without the question.

What I want tomorrow is to be strong enough, giving enough, patient enough. What I want tomorrow is to me a bit more like this example I admire. Strong. Graceful. Forgiving. Understanding. Patient. Self-sacrificing. Loving. She is these things.

She might think, tomorrow when she comes to join our friends in celebration of my birthday, that she will give me a gift. She'll have no idea that the gift was given tonight. In her hand and in her voice, I was re-acquainted with a piece of myself I'd forgotten.

And to think I had come over to provide solace to her.