It's not
easy for me to get close to people. I have tons of friends (1,091
according to Facebook), but only a handful of people that I feel
truly connected to. Whether I was simply born an introvert or moulded
by a childhood of constant movement is up for debate. At the end of
the day, the root doesn't matter as much as the fruit.
I don't
remember how I met Amanda. Meeting people isn't so cut and dry when
you live in a town that is so small that someone can scarcely sneeze
without a collective “bless you”. I sold her vegetables at my
job, she kept me caffeinated at hers, and eventually we ended up on
her porch, sipping peppermint tea and watching Mount Wantastiquet
sink deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Our
friendship sprouted quickly out of a fertile compost of devastating
breakups and de-railed plans, and thrived from a mutual desire to
grow and move forward as better people. Her cat, Luna, wove between
our legs and traversed the thin railing to headbutt the tomato plants
as we shared stories from the past and sketched outlines for the
future. It was on that rickety porch, with our ankles hanging over
the train tracks, that our friendship ripened.
A few years
later, I found myself wading through a particularly messy breakup
with a live-in partner. Even before he left, the home felt vacant.
Amanda called me from her new home in Chicago, and let me cry in her
ear for an hour-- a release I desperately needed.
“Say the
word and I'm there”, she offered.
“Yes,
please,” I begged.
A few days
later she was at my front door with a years worth of hugs, a handful
of wild flowers, and an all-encompassing comfort that only a
perennial friend can bring. We seeded, weeded, watered, and tended.
Now it's time for the harvest, and it is nourishing.
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