You know the friends that you sat up all night talking to, gossiping with, and telling all your secrets to when you were a kid? The friends who listened with rapt attention until they fell asleep? The friends that laughed -- and cried -- in all the right places when you told your stories, and whose storytelling was so superb, you felt lucky to be in their presence and amazed to be entrusted with their stories?
Last night was almost like a slumber party, like being a kid again, like having so few cares or responsibilities, that the world could slip away for some purloined hours. How rare.
Last night, as the old clock on the wall tick-tocked, three of us held court in a well-loved kitchen with warm light, homemade soup, and shared history. What a gift.
Every book I write is about friendship, its joys and perils. Ruby and Melba Jane (and Dove, of course) in Love, Ruby Lavender. Comfort and Declaration, in Each Little Bird that Sings. Cleebo and House in The Aurora County All-Stars. Joe and John Henry in Freedom Summer.
And now, Franny and Margie, in Countdown.
As you read it, keep in mind: There is nothing like a true friend, to remember you to yourself.
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