When I was young and single, I was fortunate to have several friends who sort of adopted me. They gave me a sense of belonging, and stability on the shaky bridge between my young life and the life that was unfolding before me. Lundi is one of these people, and despite being separated by distance and the work of raising our own children, she is a part of my life.
She and I would laugh, sometimes acting utterly childish, and it was like being little even though we were big. She knew how to play, and though she was wise, she was never too serious. At some point we both went back to school and changed careers. She told me I should have gone to her program, for acupuncture at Oriental College of Medicine. She knew me better than I knew myself.
She had her children first, and I watched her transform into a mother. Later, my daughter slept in the crib she raised her little ones in – the one that held them in a safe and soft cloud of dreams. We used to sneak in together in the night, and stare at her oldest. I would hold my breath, overwhelmed by love for this small, yet immense, addition to my friend. Usually, she would make me laugh by whisper-shouting funny things, and basically making a comedy routine out of the fact that babies sleep so hard.
But today, a particular memory presses; of the year Lundi and I made candles and lotion. It was the holiday season, and it brought me great comfort. I understand it was the abiding friendship that warmed me, but the candle making process still unwraps the feelings of safety and nurturance tucked inside that memory. This morning, a sense of peace hangs in the air – as Ryan and Riley are making candles while I write.
As I listen to them in the other room, and Cole naps, I am filled with love. Their hushed whispers and the picture of them leaning toward one another over the melting pot are a tribute to how this particular friendship has diffused into these lives, on this lazy, lazy Sunday, and helped create something soft and profound.
