Over and over again, I lose my best friend. It seems easier not to have one. As I grow older, I am learning to cultivate the cave of my heart for its own respite. Let friendships come and go with no labeling “best”, or just accept that the eyes, nose, voice in front of me at any given moment is my best friend. That person, animal, place, or thing I accept with friendliness is a companion reflecting myself to myself. A warm smile with an expiration date may appear from the mist but fades with time, as an ink jar empties itself into a sucking pen. The stories a friendship writes are are insufficient to sustain itself. Nothing can sustain itself. The words entangle into divergent meanings, even when written with one pen, until the story just ends. Friendships are like flowers casting shadow dances on the green spring ground. One and the other shaking to rise like joy into sorrow, sorrow into joy. Is it one or two that rise? They feel the sun together in an impermenant dance, like spring iceland poppies rising from the long cold ground. Memories like orange paper petals touch my mind heart when April brings new blooms, the same month my mother was born, and I remember that I once loved her without her need of healing me.
Dana Lee 