My essay was graciously rejected by the editor. I sulked for a bit, then got over it fairly quickly. In fact, I am working on a second attempt as you read this. In the meantime, I realized that letting my first essay sit and get dusty on the hard drive of my laptop was silly.
My take on Modern Love revolves around the love two woman develop in deep and true friendship. My journey with my great love with my best friend is mapped out for you in the essay below. We had only a few short months living near one another before we had to nurture our bond over thousands of miles. Enjoy!
 |
| Checkout the podcast |
Hello to Goodbye: A Love Story
By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston
With an
awkwardly stammered, “Hello,” I greeted the statuesque, yet graceful, woman who
stood before me. She placed her completed hostess application in my hand
replying with a sing-song, “Hello.” That musical voice bolstered my feelings
for her.
It was love at first sight.
Her elegant
hand stayed on mine for just a beat longer than necessary as she looked at me
with her soft, grey, eyes that reflected both kindness and intelligence. A
quick glance at her paperwork told me that she was three years older than me,
but we were still young, just nineteen and twenty two. From that first moment,
that brief encounter, I knew she was meant to be my best friend.
The immediate
connection must have been mutual because she asked me out. I was nervous. She
had a great sense of style, so that evening as I prepared myself for our
outing, I worried over my outfit for far too long.
All the unknowns
clouded my thinking. What would we talk about? Would we have anything in
common? Would this date lead to a second, and a third?
We met at a local
bar where we spent the night laughing, chatting, and flirting (with men). We
never ran out of things (or people) to discuss. We bonded over beer, Tequila
shots, and trash talk.
She was the
better flirt. Her self-confidence with her looks and sexuality magnified my
awkwardness. I was mesmerized by her ease manipulating the opposite sex. She
wowed the men who buzzed around her with her party tricks.
She, a
professional dancer, would raise one long leg straight in the air tucking her
ankle behind her ear as she smiled coyly at the mesmerized, inexperienced,
young men who drooled a little as they envisioned what that flexibility would
do for them.
Next, she would
politely request a maraschino cherry from the beguiled bartender. Popping the
cherry from the stem, she ate it, slowly, feigning oblivion to all the
masculine eyes who watched with lustful admiration. Then, she placed the stem
between her teeth before it disappeared into her mouth. Moments later she
revealed a perfectly tied bow. Her admirers might have swooned if they were not
so macho.
Of course, she
was never without a free drink in her hand. I often received the obligatory pity-drink
from the men who wanted to take her
home. We were both attractive, but she had that come-hither quality men flocked
to while I exuded a tough girl persona that made men step wide around me on
their way to her side.
She and I
bonded for months during our bar outings. We spent all of our free time
together talking, drinking, and planning our futures. She was nursing a broken
heart, and trying to break free from her financial dependence on her father. Being
a dancer by day and hostess by night made paying the bills difficult. I worked
long hours managing a restaurant, and spent my downtime sleeping off the
hangovers acquired during my nights with her.
We created a
bond that most women strive to develop with at least one other woman; the type
of friendship that lasts forever, through thick and thin; one that withstands
miles of distance and years of silence; one that ensures a cheerleader and a
shoulder to cry on; one that will withstand any and all trials and
tribulations.
I
believed our friendship and our bond to be irrevocable.
After just a few
months, it was time for us to part ways. As we sat side-by-side in my ice blue
Honda Accord, which towed a too big U-Haul, we laughed, sang, and napped our
way over nearly three thousand miles. We were mesmerized by the many hues of
brown in the fields of corn, endless deserts, and majestic mountain ranges that
raced past us before we descended into the verdant landscapes of Northern
California, my new home.
She held my
hand as I sobbed, terrified yet excited to start a fresh life without my family,
without her. Together, we scrubbed the filth from the room I rented in a dilapidated
Victorian house perched precariously on a cliff above the bay. She artfully arranged
my mismatched furniture to make my space feel homey. With me settled, it was time
for her to leave. I drove her to the airport so she could start her new life in
the faraway Midwest.
The thousands
of miles that separated us did not matter. Maintaining our long-distance
relationship, we saw each other once or twice a year, picking up where we left
off each time.
The years
passed by and we grew up. My morning hangovers were replaced by morning yoga. I
worked at various jobs making money, just scraping by. I met new women and
built friendships, but none were as easy, or true as what I had with her.
Still relying
on the generosity of her father, she continued to dance by day and used her
flirtatious ways to coax businessmen to leave large tips on the overpriced drinks
she served by night. Bundled-up against the artic winds and ankle deep slush of
her new hometown, she trudged toward her goals of becoming a wife, mother, and
author. Meanwhile, I sat on the beach, sun kissed, enjoying my idle and aimless
life.
She struggled
through a series of bad relationships that she wished had ended in marriage. She
often called in tears, hurt by these men she had loved. Disillusioned and
convinced she would never marry, she became a teacher and bought a home. She no
longer needed her dad’s support. Finances and home sickness compelled me to
move back home where I found romantic love and a career.
Then something
shifted. Our unbreakable bond cracked. I called her one night gushing about the
man I loved. At first she was silent. I could feel her hesitation over the
miles that separated us. Rather than being happy for me, she warned me to not
fall “too hard.” She doubted the depth of the bond I had with this man. Her
words, rooted in her own pain and loss, hurt me deeply. I told her so.
We stopped talking.
Whenever I
dared to imagine my wedding day, she was my maid of honor. We would shop and
plan together. We would dance and laugh on my big day. Weeks before my wedding,
I broke the silence and called to invite her. She cited financial hardship as
her reason to not come. I heard strains of envy in her voice.
We did not speak for years.
Without warning,
she called with news of her own wedding. She pleaded for me to be there. I went
to her bridal shower, sitting amongst her new women friends feeling betrayed. She
tried to make me feel special, seating me next to her at the rehearsal dinner
and asking me to speak at the ceremony. We tried to pick-up where we left off.
The undertones of hurt and mistrust
could not be ignored.
We started
visiting each other again. We spent evenings at bars trying to find our rhythm,
to play our games. It felt awkward and forced. She fell into her new domestic
life, decorating her house and relishing her new role as “wife.” She tried to
start a family. I adopted a child, becoming a mother first.
She never visited my baby.
Her dad died
suddenly. I raced to be by her side. She was grateful. Then, drunk, she said
hurtful things. I tried to let it go, to blame the grief. I returned to my
family still stinging. We talked on the phone from time to time.
I feigned forgiveness.
Becoming the
mother she desperately wanted to be, she delivered her baby boy nearly dying at
his birth. Several months later, I brought my daughter across the country to
meet her and her beautiful son. She was a loving and attentive mother. Her
sweet sing-song voice soothed her baby boy and reminded me of the girl I first
fell in love with.
My hurt dissolved.
I adopted my
second child. Coincidentally, while she was visiting, my baby came home. She
refused to hold her. Her discomfort was obvious. I tried to understand and not
let her behavior upset me. She wanted more children which her health prevented.
I wrote a
children’s book which was unexpectedly published. Knowing this was her dream,
not mine, I reserved my excitement when I told her. She tried to be happy for
me. She never asked for a copy of my book. She also wrote a children’s book. I
encouraged her to pursue publishing. She never did.
The years
passed and we tried to stay in touch, but raising children makes time for
friends difficult. Our visits became less frequent. We bickered during long phone
calls over parenting styles. As my family grew and hers remained the same, she
became more distant. My career evolved and I published more children’s books.
The crack became a chasm.
With my
youngest in tow, I visited her, excited to reconnect. Rather than finding my
warm and welcoming friend, she was cold and distant. Had I done something
unintentional to hurt her? She refused to talk with me about it. Instead, she
disappeared for a year. I reached out with a note apologizing for not being a
better friend.
She never acknowledged my gesture.
She called on
my forty-fifth birthday. Rather than wishing me well, she revealed the root of
her anger, her deep hurt. She told me she could no longer be my friend. We said,
“Goodbye.”
With a broken heart, I let my first true
love go.
I think of her
often, smiling when I recall those first few months, how we ended each night at
our bar leaving the men behind, happy to have each other. I remember how she
hugged me hard, not wanting to leave me in California. I smile when I think of
how she spoiled me on my Midwest visits. I cherish those beautiful memories and
each moment we had together.
No comments:
Post a Comment