For Karen, the birthday girl

August 2010. Together again after a 10-year exile in Texas.

Today is my dear friend Karen's birthday. Last year, a few days after this day, I met her at a park — me with the boys and her with her girls, Reagan and Peyton — and we did what we always did: Watched our kids play together while we talked pretty much non-stop. I remember that day that our younger kids kept climbing this one structure at the park that they couldn't get down from. We kept taking turns, interrupting our conversation, to go over there and pull the both of them down. Then they'd start climbing right back up again and we'd repeat the whole process every five minutes. We kept shaking our heads and laughing, more amused than annoyed.

I don't think either one of us tired of seeing our kids play together the way we had when we were little. They interacted so well, all four of them, and I know it always did my heart and her heart good to see that. It was always a reminder of how long we'd been friends, and to see that cycle repeating itself ... well, it just doesn't happen very often. There have been very few constants in my life other than good friends, and Karen was the oldest and dearest of those friends for me.

It was about two weeks after that day that I got a call that she was gone. Her heart simply stopped working the way it's meant to, and she was gone.

I'm not sure a birthday ever passed — mine or hers — that we didn't call one another. A couple of weeks before she died last year, I pulled out a box of old letters and cards, went through them and threw many of them away. If you know me, you know I'm prone to tossing things out at any give moment. I rarely regret it, but I do regret that that day I threw away a bunch of birthday cards that Karen had sent me over the years. She was always good at sending cards, way better than me. Rather than send her a card, I would usually torture her on her birthday by calling and singing to her.

I can still hear her voice, and I'm glad for that. It was a voice that always made me feel better. But I'm so sad today that I can't hear her voice. That I can't insist she get out of the house and meet me somewhere for dinner and cocktails. That I can't attack her with my singing and hear the smile in her voice as she thanks me for that.

I think Karen knew how much she meant to me. I know we both expected to be old ladies together, and I wish I could have wished her happy birthday on her 80th. I don't know what happens after we die, and I'll never presume to know, but I do hope with all my heart that when I do die, I get to see Karen's face again and hear her voice in some other dimension. And I bet she'll say this: "About time you got her. C'mon, let me show you around and let's catch up." Hopefully they'll have Crown and Cokes in this dimension and we can share a few.

Today I'll do what Karen would want me to do. Spend some time with my kids and spoil them a little — we're going to see Wreck It Ralph, and we'll buy popcorn and candy and soda and I'll get them good and sugared up and laugh as much as possible together. I never knew anyone who was as dedicated to spending as much time with her kids as Karen was. I suspect she knew she was short of it, and pledged to make the most of what she had.

There's a good lesson in there. I hope to be an old crotchedy grandma one day, but you never really know. We've got to make the most of the time we have. If you take anything from this post, even for a day, take that — go spend some time with those who mean the most to you, and make sure to laugh. Love the very simplicity of being with someone who makes your heart feel full.

Our first apartment together. CU-Boulder. 1991.

Happy Birthday, Karen. You were the most true, honest and loyal of friends. 

I miss you with my whole self.