Just like the old times

"WRITING A BOOK?!? That is so wickedly awesome!!! It doesn't surprise me... you always knew what you wanted in life, never afraid to take a leap or chance...just an amazing girl!! I had known writing was your thing and wondered where you would go with it."

Her words come flying off the screen at me, a rush of excitement and smiles. With them come the memories, oh, the memories. Of cross country runs in the sunrise and notes passed in the hallways and cookies after church. Of McDonald's at midnight and parties with the hottest college boys, some of whom used to confuse us for sisters. There are memories of showing up someplace before her, the wrestler's trailer or the bar's dance floor, only to spend the half hour before her arrival explaining that no, "I'm not Iz, I'm Mars. No, we're not sisters, just friends..."
There are memories of late nights and bar crawls and dreams and hopes and fears. There are memories of fun times and tough phone calls, the ones in which I assured her I wasn't sleeping with her boyfriend, and would tell her, if I was.

And then there is the memory of the conversation where I kept my promise, the one hardest to keep, the one where I had to tell her that I had slept with him. Years later, that one still hurts, when I think about it now. It hurts because he was my best friend. And she was my best friend. And even though the two of them had split up, it hurt us all. And when I lost her, first, and then him, I just chalked it up to the experiences of youth and stupidity. None of us talk anymore-- he's married, she's... maybe bored, and I'm busy again with my own life, doing what feels right in the moment (you'd think I'd learn).

But a couple of weeks ago, when I saw that Iowa was under water, in a big way, I put the past behind me and hoped to hear back from her.

"Iz, this is Mars. Wanna make sure eyou're ok. Txt me back if you can."
Just one line of text, one small message sent out to an old friend that I once loved and wanted all the best for. Hearing that she was ok was as good as getting her email address, as good as getting the reply in my mailbox today. I read through her email, hear her old laughter, sense of sarcasm, feel her personality in each word chosen. But with all of that I read a sense of purpose in those lines, a sense of self that has developed in the years we've been separated. Like me, I'm sure she's still the same short, dark beauty she once was, the crazy girl up for anything and wlling to prove it. And like me, I can tell she's grown up, too, left that place of jealousy and gossip and boredom that we both dreamed of escaping those years ago, running along the cornfields and cracked pavement of our childhoods.