My Best Friend

Always, she was my best friend. Some times the only one.

She was older than me, nearly twenty years, but she's the one who shared and kept my secrets. She listened to me talk about my fears and never belittled them. She let me whine about the class bully, the teacher who just didn't like me, and she celebrated my successes with me.

Best of all, she understood how teenage disappointments could truly be heartbreaking.

In turn, she shared vivid accounts of her life. Such as the poverty she had experienced during the 1920s and the Great Depression. She was the second oldest of nine children and told me she felt like a hired hand as she milked cows on the family dairy farm before and after school while only about eight years old.

She talked about how unappreciated she'd felt caught between an older brother who was the favorite and a younger sister who was a hair-pulling hellion. Her comfort came from mothering several younger siblings. She told funny stories about the "little ones" and their adventures.

I moved away. She didn't, but our friendship endured. She had as many pictures of my children as I do. I'm godmother to her youngest daughter and her son is one of my best friends.

Our relationship endured difficulties. At the time of my dad's death, she was newly widowed and needed my attention most when I was in the depths of grief myself. During the worst period in our lives and friendship, we couldn't comfort each other. But we continued to love and respect one another.

Along with her son and daughter, I helped plan a surprise party for her seventy-fifth birthday. We were excited and the event took place in our hometown in Oklahoma. A crowd of about fifty people gathered to honor her. Two of her remaining three siblings were there, along with her children and most of her grandchildren. Two of her sisters-in-law came, along with their children. They came from as far south as Houston and as far north as Oklahoma City.

Seems they all loved her as much as I did. The year was 1993 and she lived another nine years. At 84, I let her go, not because I was ready, but because she had given up the fight.

Perhaps you've guessed this great lady was my mother and her children are my brother and sister.

Lookin' back, I've said it before, but it bears repeating, "I love you, Mother. As I told you every time we talked, you were the best Mother and Memie anyone could have. Thank you for that."