Long blonde hair, eye make-up and Rick Springfield

I haven't blogged in a while, I mean really blogged. I have "logged" a bit, meaning I have given a rundown of my weekend, provided the particulars of my day, but I haven't actually blogged in a way that I like most: putting into words what matters to me most at a given time and space. I suspect it is because mostly there are just random thoughts and processes running through my mind. And I am not much good at communicating them until they have been tossed and tumbled a bit.

This often drives Cynical insane. I'll be going through a "rough patch", and grumbling a little under the surface, but I find I am just not ready to "talk about it yet". I need more time to think it over, to review what it is that's bugging me and perhaps decide how I really feel about it. Then I am ready for a logical, considerate conversation.

And I find that perhaps now I am ready to share something with you. I have had time to absorb it, time to make it real and time to understand it.

I was online yesterday, and for some reason I decided to read through the obituaries posted via my local newspaper. I am not sure why, just passing time I suppose. And as I scrolled down, I saw her name.

And it took my breath away. My hand shook as I moved the cursor over her name and clicked. It was then I knew it was true. I saw her photograph, and knew it was her.

When I was in middle school and junior high, I was friends with a girl that was in my homeroom each year. It seems that the alphabet had brought us together, as we were segmented via our last name and we assembled accordingly each morning. We eventually shared a locker too.

I was the kind of kid that didn't fit anywhere. My parents weren't "blue" collar, but they weren't "white" collar either. I was a good student (a tribute to being the offspring of two educators), but didn't have anything in common with the smart kids. I wasn't one of the pretty girls. I wasn't one of the exiled. I wasn't a concert t-shirt wearing thug. I wasn't a socialite. I didn't smoke behind the stadium and I didn't apply lip gloss regularly. I was just me. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not tortured and unhappy. Not bubbling and giggling.

And Beth, that's what we'll call her, was her own person as well, with no real group to call her own. So,we were friends. We were lunch buddies. We were locker pals. We hung out together.

She had long blonde hair, beautiful handwriting and a true appreciation for Rick Springfield. She wrote volumes of poetry, and wore eye make-up.

I was finally at an age where my parents had agreed to let me spend the night with someone other than my grandmother. And in all honesty, I suspect they were very glad to pawn me off on someone once and a while. Eventually we were good enough friends for her to invite me over. I loved spending time at her house. She was the youngest of six and doted on by her siblings and mother. And, the best thing: they actually ordered food and brought it to their house. Big sloppy, juicy hamburgers, fixed any way you wanted.

And her mother had let her plaster the walls and slanted ceiling of her room with all sorts of heart throb posters. There was always someone to take us to the movies. She was always game for staying up late, talking and listening to Rick on her stereo. Oh, and she had a rabbit, in a cage in the garage. It was heaven: a true friend, good music and snacks.

That's the way it was until we got to high school. We still shared a locker, but we were in different classes and therefore different activities, but still slipped each other notes, written in her beautiful fluffy, feminine handwriting. I was a little embarrassed to be in the "upper level" classes with her in the "basic track", but she never made me feel badly about it, just teased that I'd be a college girl one day.

Beth became pregnant in our sophomore year and had to attend an alternative school. I was devastated.

I went on to college, she raised her family. I saw little of her. I know that happens, you grow apart from your friends, you begin to lead different lives. I understand that is often the natural progression of some friendships, but I did miss her and think of her often.

I saw her a few times after college, stopping by her house to visit her and play with her two kids. But, we were heading in different directions, so our friendship, while still there, was a bit dormant. I haven't seen her in years.

I went to the funeral home recently upon learning her mother had passed and was disappointed that I didn't get to spend some time with her. She wasn't there. Her family remembered me and greeted me warmly. They gave me her cell phone number and encouraged me to call. I felt awkward calling her at such a time and kept putting it off.

I am ashamed now that I didn't call; that I didn't contact her. It's a missed chance at closure or some attempt at reuniting.

I called her oldest sister yesterday, ashamed that I had missed the funeral and wanted her to know I would have been there. If I had only known. The obituary had been posted over a week prior and I had missed it as I was out of town.

And so I have thought about Beth all night and into the morning, remembering even more tidbits about her and our time together, making me more sad that I hadn't made the call.

I have resisted the urge today to call of my lifelong friends to make sure they know I appreciate them, even if we haven't had a long talk lately. I have always prided myself on maintaining friendships, but now I am so sad that there are a few I let slip by.

And as I think of her, we are frozen in time. Her long blond hair is held back in a headband. She's handing me a handwritten note between classes and we're making plans to see "Hard to Hold" at the twin cinema.