Today, I went to one of my oldest friends’ son’s Bar Mitzvah.
She and I have been friends since 4th grade. She came half way through the year. From Wisconsin, of all places. She even had a Wisconsin license plate on her wall in her bedroom.
Wisconsin is very far away when you are 9 years old.
We became fast friends. We often dressed alike, as little girls do. And, in my mind, we looked exactly the same. Twins. Nevermind that she had long blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and long legs.
We looked exactly the same.
Life is funny. People move, change, marry. And move some more. Babies are born. Time goes by. There are tragedies and joys.
And it all comes rushing back as I watch her son become a bar mitzvah. He’s a handsome kid. He looks so confident today. So ready.
I remember when she and I were his age. So curious and ready to grow up. I remember going to Great Falls with her family and taking pix of her little brother acting silly. I remember her long gray wool coat. I loved that coat. I remember a ketchup squeeze container that her family had that looked like a pig. (Why a pig?) I called it Jeff. (Sorry, Jeff.)
In the powder room at her house, all this cool Westinghouse stuff hung on the walls. It fascinated me.
And then there’s the time she spent at my house. Lots of time.
And then we grew up. She moved away. I got married. She came back and bought a condo. I got divorced. She became a nurse. I started my career in advertising. She met a guy and moved away (but not so far) and I met a guy and moved far away.
So of course there are a thousand details in between, but what strikes me is that I can’t imagine not seeing her son become a bar mitzvah, just as she saw my sons reach the milestone.
Old friends. There’s just nothing like ’em.