A person I once knew..and know still. A friend.

"A true friend is one who, when everyone else is smashing pumpkins comes to the door and helps you carry yours in." -Taken from my journal. Dated Oct. 29, 2005.


My first best friend's name was Lauren Elizabeth Dyer. My mother kept Lauren and her brother Ben each summer while their parents worked. I would wake up early each morning and lay on the couch, still groggy with sleep and wait for the knock on the door. Her arrival was what I lived for.
We were absolutely nothing alike. She was tall and athletic and made boys cry. She was brave and outgoing, but somehow quiet and peaceful. I was short, skinny, shy, and timid. There is a picture of us I keep in a little memory box. We are wearing matching turtle necks of a deep red. Over them are over alls, accompanied by tan boots. Together, somehow, God knit together a perfect pair. And though our friendship was only for a season-it was pure and innocent. We were sisters in every sense of the word and would spend every day and night together in the summer. We would go on adventures and pretend we were maidens in need of a prince to rescue us. Yes, we somehow learned the whole "damsal i distress" routine at the age of seven. We would lock ourselves in my father's closet and cry out for our prince. My toe headed four year old brother would then come storming into the castle and save our lives. For this, we were forever indebted. Other times, we would climb up into our "friendship tree"and we would talk about God and dreams and boys. Lauren was the first person to hear me say that I had a crush on a boy. I remember her telling me, "You like Patrick Jones." "No I don't. I just think he's cute." "That means you like him, Audrey." And I believed her. I laugh quite hard sometimes when I think of the many summer afternoons we would drag my doll bed out to the end of my driveway. We would flip it over and convert the white wooden rocking crip into a table. FOR SALE- was always written on a white sheet of paper. We would sell pictures we had drawn, cups of water, sour apples picked off of my neighbor's tree. Dusk would always come quickly and my mother would come out and pick up the paper cups we had scattered around the yard as we chased eachother with water. Our only profit was our laughter...and I like to think that was better than any money we could have made.
The Fourth of July was my favorite. Our families would come together and Lauren and I would lay in the grass and look up at the stars and the fireworks in awe. In those moments of our lives- everything was perfect.
And then one day things change. Puberty hit and different roads were taken...and I often saw her walking down my street with another girl, and I wished that girl was me...and then they moved and I never saw her. But I thought of her fondly. I still do. I'll be walking and see a basset hound- or a swing- or I'll drive past the lot where the old movie store used to be and I'll think of her. It is in these moments that I question the reason for rejecting these memories. Lauren was one of the best friends I have ever had, and yet, I never tell anyone about her. So, now I am. Her hair was brown. She could lick her arm-pit. It was disgusting. She stood up for me.

Today, I felt very much like a seven year old again as I sat impatiently waiting for Macy to arrive at the little coffee shop on the corner. It had been three months, and I was ecstatic. A hug. A squeal from within. coffee and rain drops on our heads...running down my nose. Giggles. Oh! how many girlish giggles. And we talked of serious and silly matters..and we ate sweet potatoe fries, and we bore our souls effortlessly. And time passed quickly and soon I had to go. We parted with "I love you, be safe, I'll be praying for you."
And I have. And as I do- I pray for Lauren too.

"A bosom friend- an intimate friend, you know- a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my in-most soul."