She pulls the red car into the driveway of my school and I bound towards it, light, light, light with the promise of laughter and time. The piano music she's just written seeps from the speakers and we weave words of love over the sounds she has made. There is so much to tell, so many stories.
She is the friend who challenges me to create, to write words of love and life and the old myths emerging in my heart onto the page. She reads my words as eagerly as the best novels, and tells me the truth about myself when it's hard and beautiful and good. We sit in the semi-dark of the wide living room, smells of perfume and the crackling fire in the grate and her hands alive at the piano. "Listen to this, Hil!" she exclaims and then the music rolls through the room and it is the sounds of friendship and the sounds of blossoming beautiful selves. We love each other in our words and music and the promise of journeying together hand in hand to peer out over the possibilities of what is next.
I peel peaches at her smooth counter and she kneads dough for pie crust and the sounds of our many years of growing and laughing sing their way through the house. We dream of fixing up a tumbling cracked villa in Tuscany and going to find the England of Jane Austen together and sharing a little house on Little Neck in Ipswich where we could bake and write and sing and teach. When we are together we dream big and wide and with abandon. Anne Shirley and Diana dreams. Kindred spirit dreams.