I don’t have history friends.
There is no friend who has been around my life for more than four years, except for Genavieve. I move around too much.
Gena is my friend from home who moved here a year ago. I met her the summer before my freshman year of high school. It was the height, I tell you, the epitome of my awkward stage. Gena had just graduated, so she was cooler to me than anyone I had ever met.
We’re neighbors now, and we even work together. I share a deep kinship with her that I didn’t know was possible with people who aren’t family. Her sense of humor puts my stomach in stitches. Our cubicle farm friends walk by and stare at us quizzically because they just don’t understand what’s so funny.
Me: “Do you remember the time in high school that we got back to your house really late and we were supposed to be quiet and I accidentally—“
She reminds me of the time I dated a redneck and wore cowboy boots, and I remind her of the time she broke her tailbone and had to carry around a donut pillow everywhere to be able to sit down.
Fast forward through eight years of learning and growing and heart-breaking and laughing and movie nights and beach days and mission trips and car accidents and two separate trips to Kansas City, and you’ll find the two of us laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, making peace with the past. We talked until midnight about places we don’t go anymore, teachers who taught us good things and people who didn’t know they were teachers who taught us lies that we believed.
And we said it was okay after all, because the love of God is stronger than death.
I need to make more friends into history friends. They’re important.