A Letter to Sarah

I remember the day I met you. It was in Levi’s kitchen. Travis brought you over. Up until that point I had felt terrible about introducing him to all my friends. The way they accepted him with open arms, while he was secretly a crappy person. Yet it was like you were his peace offering. His way of saying, “Hey sorry I’ve been an asshole, here’s a pretty girl for you to be friends with.” And pretty you were. I couldn’t stop looking at your eyes. Sure, you were wearing color enhancing contacts, but that’s not why I couldn’t stop looking—it was the way they squinched up when you smiled. And you didn’t stop smiling.

I recall when I met everyone, I was so scared. There were so many of them! It was intimidating. Not you though, you weren’t scared. You casually lit your cigarette and discussed the finer points of Tupac and Biggie Smalls. You just kept smiling as you introduced yourself to perfect strangers with a firm handshake. You cracked a beer and brought up Modern American literature. You owned the room. I was in love. I think we all were. I can’t even count how many times that night we told Travis you were too good for him and that we were going to trade him for you. I eventually did.

It was exciting to have a friend that loved to read as much as me. Someone that I could pour over plot arcs and character development with. Even better you weren’t just a reader, you were a writer. Oh how romantic for me! You let me read your stories. You shared your journals, your poetry. I was in awe the way you created a vivid scene in the reader’s mind. Your imagery was never forced. It was as if your stories had always existed just beyond the horizon of a familiar land. You had such a way with words. Not just written, but when you spoke. For someone with such a brazen potty mouth, you could be so eloquent when called for.

I remember the day you bought the HHR. You were SO excited to be purchasing a new car on your own. I thought it was ugly as hell, but that didn’t stop me from being proud of you. You called me to come help you get all the stuff out of your old car and load it into, as you called it, “the new whip”. You also thought that it would be fun if we pretended I was your partner, just to freak out all the uptight suits at the car dealership. It wasn’t that hard to pretend to be a supportive girlfriend, because I was anyway. The only difference was this time we held hands when we left. We giggled wildly on the way out—I think we blew our cover.

Thinking of that car reminds me of all the times we cruised around trying to freestyle our own rap songs. They were terrible! The only topics we ever covered were how we were cruising, that we were with our “main hoes”, (those hoes being us) and how badass we were. Come to think of it, that’s what most rap songs are about anyway, so I guess we were doing okay.

Sometimes when we were out at a bar and you’d had a few too many, you’d call your brother and try to get him to come hang out with us. He never would, but godamnit he knew exactly what to say to convince you that he’d come out next time. You’d hang up and say, “Well he’s baby-dicking around at home. What a pussy.” I always thought it was so funny that you called your brother a pussy so often. Mostly for doing homework.

My most favorite memories are when you had that apartment in St. Claire Shores. When I came to visit, we’d just sit at your kitchen table and talk for hours. You had a really comfortable couch, but we always sat at the table. Always the kitchen table. Sometimes you’d cook. When you were going through your vegetarian phase, you’d make me cut up the meat for your potluck dishes. Eventually you’d confide to me that you snuck some of grandma’s meatballs or sausage at a family party. Sometimes when I came over, I’d bring my art supplies and teach you to paint. Or I’d bring my camera and you’d say, “Carie don’t take pictures, I’m all sweaty and my hair is a disaster.” You always looked fine. Even when I came to visit you at the hospital you were concerned with how you looked. I knew you would be, that’s why I brought the purple nail polish and gave you a manicure. I just wish that you could have seen yourself the way I saw you. You were so radiant.

Yeah, you had some battles to fight. That can’t be ignored, but I never looked at your problems any different than anyone else’s. I never judged you. In my mind everyone has issues, what matters is not what they are, but how a person overcomes the obstacles we are faced with. And I really admired what you had done with yourself. It impressed me that you had such high goals. I respected your thirst for knowledge, new ideas, and self-improvement. Your quest for betterment was contagious; it pushed me to strive for the same things.

I can’t be sad anymore. I know you wouldn’t want me to be. You’d say, “Chin up bebee.” and then you’d say something in French that I can’t pronounce. “Ne pleure pas mon amour.” “Do not cry my love.”