What I’ve Learned From A 40-Year Friendship
What are you doing if not have growing pains within forty years of being a person?
oneinchpunch | Shutterstock, Tamara Velazquez, ValaGrenier | Canva There’s something so special to be a testament to someone else’s growth, to bear witness to their soul sprouting forth from an unsteady youth towards a confident future self. Then that gift comes rippling back for your own benefit. It’s awe-inspiring, this imagining of souls.
My bestie and I met our first year of high school, when I was thirteen and she was fourteen, both coming from less than favorable backgrounds. Our home lives were tough, to say the least, and we felt the pressure of carrying that burden. We’d each been shut out of social circles and bullied, so there was some trauma bonding happening, but mostly I remember we spoke a lot in silence. Typically that’s a very masculine approach to life and keeping company, yet it worked for us. Perhaps there was enough mutual understanding happening. Or maybe we just liked the quiet.
Neither of us remembers meeting the other one. It’s like we picked up the conversation mid-sentence and had always been friends. The how of it escapes us to this day. Funny.
Ollyy / Shutterstock
And it doesn’t matter. We were there for each other’s destruction when we’d somewhat drop out of contact because we were ashamed to have the other see the bad choices we knew we were about to make. We fought and took time away to cool off. We came together for family time on Sundays, crowding with chosen siblings into a favorite brunch spot. We birthed her child together.
It’s OK to fight, to disagree, to make poor decisions. What are you doing if not have growing pains within forty years of being a person? We’re also both strong-willed people, with big personalities, and that has made for some explosive times as we formed who we are.
It’s wonderful to come back together, to know that will always be the case, and to be steadier for it. We have much more empathy here in our later years, still amazed we are living into old age together.
We no longer stop at roadside stands for burgers with coleslaw and chili because the reflux is second fiddle to the fact that we live several states apart now. We had a good run for road trips in the middle of the night, blasting Sinead O’Connor and Ministry, and taking ourselves to clubs when we were underage.
We gave each other away at our weddings.
This love is a deep river etched into our bones. Bestie and I still talk every day, light touches and a weekly phone call, something that is a touchstone for our lives. That kind of knowledge of another person, that watching each other grow up and flourish, is so big it has to be shared.
Having memories to hand down, these “I knew your Mom when...” moments are ones to cherish. Maybe they’re not for history books, but they’re written in the stories of our hearts.
Harper Hazelmare (she/they + we/our/ours) is a non-binary, queer, disabled botanical artist, writer of cautionary tales, and keeper of a community apothecary. Her current book, Snapshots: Stories for the Nearsighted, is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.