Time makes memories fuzzy, but some stand out with perfect clarity:
Rainy days in the dusty library attic dressing up in costumes stored by the high school drama class.
Choreographing dance routines to Whitney Houston with passionate pleas to teach the children and let them lead the way.
Playing Labyrinth and concentrating on the marble's path while telling secrets too important to remember.
Jelly shoes and slap bracelets, being jealous of her blond hair and practicing putting on sticky lip gloss, the memories jumble and twist and I'm left with nothing but a feeling of the highs and lows of tween girlfriends.
I'm not sure when we drifted apart...sixth grade? Seventh grade? By high school, I was happily ensconced in nerdom and she was the willowy cheerleader. Still, when you're in a class of thirty-five, you're never really not friends. Which was why I enthusiastically accepted her invitation to stop and stay the night at her family's home in Bend.
After all, what's twenty-three years between friends?
We crossed into Oregon and as if a curtain lifted, were instantly surrounded by water. Lakes, rivers, streams, we soaked up the liquid with our thirsty California eyes. We'd been on the road for hours, stopping when we could, paying our respects at the Memorial Statue Garden, and eating Red Vines.
Harry Potter took over and we discovered, to Joseph and my dismay, that Elizabeth hates audio books. We hit a compromise - an hour of Potter followed by an hour of music - and drove past lakes so wide and long they looked like massive rivers. We made a last stop, walking from the bathroom to the nearby river. We stood in the frigid waters and let it soak into our dusty skin.
And finally, we reached Bend.
I was worried I wouldn't recognize Lacey. After all, it's been over two decades since I've seen her. We found her home in a maze of gorgeous stone and wood houses. She texted that she was walking from the pool and that her house was open. As we unloaded, I saw her walk to me, the same loose-limbed walk I remember from our treks across the baseball fields for band class every day for three years. The same easy grace I remember from PE volleyball.
We hugged and the years disappeared.
We joined her and her friends and family around the pool, eating a late dinner, letting a drink loosen my joints tight from sitting in the car. We talked of people we knew, people we know. We talked of children - her oldest daughter is sixteen, nearly the same age she was when we last saw each other and so similar it made memories flood. We returned to their house, letting the kids play while we continued talking, our words tumbling over until it because so very obvious that an overnight visit just wasn't enough.
The next morning, we drove to downtown Bend to a restaurant where I ate Cardomon and sea salt French toast I dream of and made me remember the PNW reigns the west coast. We stood in the hot sun, talking until, finally, I realized we needed to leave but not without exacting promises of visits, of camping trips. Promises that hung in the air like hopes and wishes, but, perhaps, ones that might come true.
We left Lacey's beautiful family and pointed our car west. West to the Bryums and Fourth of July fun. West through the mountains. West away from a small city where we'd found warmth and welcome.
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