Auntie Me

My friend Sarah comes to visit in Vermont once or twice a year. She comes now in June, for the solstice, and we light candles on the pond and drink sangria. We've known eachother since we were fifteen years old. Last year, as her maid of honor, I told the story about the first time I came to pick her up in my car. I pulled up outside her old Victorian house and honked my horn. It was getting on evening and the house was shaded by a huge tree. I'm guessing maple. Maybe oak. I was about to honk one more time when the branches of the tree started to shake just a bit and she came slithering out the tree, book in hand. I knew then that it was love at first sight. A girl after my own heart. And she still is. The love runs deeper than any post can possibly convey.

We endured her years away at college, fixed up an old Volkswagon and set out to explore. We read to one another as we traveled back roads and freeways and even switched up drivers with that van at 65mph. Impressive.

She sat on my lawn two years after that VW summer as I labored inside my Main Street farmhouse with Ella. She sat and cried and rocked back and forth and sent out blessings. I felt them.

I left Vermont at 5pm, seven years later, on April 16th, when she went into labor, drove seven hours to Pennsylvania and labored through the night with her when she had her daughter. Living so far away, especially now that we're both moms, is almost painful. It's been so hard not to see her daughter through all of her firsts, not to be a regular auntie.

When Sarah would come to visit, when Ella was younger, I would occasionally catch her with tears in her eyes. Just watching Ella play and tears brimming her eyelids.

After spending a week now with her daughter, and falling absolutely in love with her, I understand now those tears. I understand how hard it was for her to pack up her car and go. To not be closer, to not be watching her grow.

The solstice is in three weeks. She'll be up here, in the knee high grass and house full of ants and the broken showerhead. But we'll have important business of eskimo and butterfly kisses to attend to. This time, after our week on the ocean, I think she'll remember me.