We all have that one person in our youth, or at some point in our memorable life keystrokes, that stands out. They made an impression on who we were and who we are. I won’t pretend that I don’t have more than one that fits this bill; however as of late,  one has been on my mind.

Bull in a China shop.

I may have been 80 pounds, soaking wet, with large green glasses and a penchant for books; the larger the book, the larger the berth for my escape from my own home challenges. She was boisterous and made it a point to sit next to the private Catholic school girl who transferred home on the public school bus. This fortunate soul happened to be me. Sweet one moment when she wanted to borrow my radio, then cruel the next when she would hit me in the head with its antenna, which often would be followed by uncomfortable laughter from the other kids who only did so because they were safe, at that moment, she was a delicate bull. Only a few could see this.

“Angry people are not always wise.”**

There was never a moment that I was angry with her. Instead, sad is the adjective I would choose. I cannot paint a lovely picture on the exacts of how the tides changed, but I do know it involved telling her she was being mean and pretending I was bigger than my 80 pounds would prescribe…

Melissa. Missy.

We had sleepovers. We built forts. We put on make-up and dressed up in her huge selection of random and unique clothing. We talked about periods, and tampons when no one else would with me. We snuck out. We drank my first beer together. We talked about our first kiss. We talked about who we were – because all teenagers know this definitively, right? We talked about where we wanted to be, never who we wanted to be…

Blond, brassy, buxom, boisterous…all those things defined the girl I called my best friend, at that time. As the sun started peeking out from the sky while giggling and walking, at a mere 13, the sight of a strong tall woman in a long flannel nightgown covered in sheep standing on Missy’s front porch will never ever leave my mind. I panicked. My mother only knows now, because I shared our late night drunken sneaking out meanderings later in life. My friend sweet-talked our way out of trouble and what remains now as one of my many early amazing adventures.

“Tears come from the heart and not the brain.”***

Her sad was always there,  just bubbling under the surface. Quiet reflection on those who surround me was what I brought to this friendship table and there were moments when her sad erupted.

She was an artist, but didn’t know her passion. Perhaps she did later in her short life, but what she painted for me was a door to delving into my need for adventure head first and being ones authentic self. Few teens get that gift from an adult, let alone a peer.

It takes time…

..to become young within your years, and this, sadly, wasn’t part of her life journey. She’s gone now, and rifling through old pictures reminded me of her spirit and all that it exuded on me, and countless others. Her mother mourns, everyday. While I hope to never experience this loss, I pray tell she takes comfort in knowing that Missy was and remains a joyful memory whose adventurous zest for life lives on in many of those small town kids from Hermon, New York.

She is still loved.

*Pablo Picasso

** Jane Austen

***Leonardo da Vinci