Vicki Wilhelm - Sept 26, 1978

We met at work. She was from a far away land called Ohio and lonely for her family. I had never left Texas and didn't understand. We spent months checking each other out, not really getting along. We were so different, so alike. We decided to be friends.

Our husbands got along well. My eight-year-old daughter delighted in my new friend's baby girl. We spent one magical Christmas eve together, getting high, talking and talking. My little girl was too excited for sleep until the sound of sleigh bells (we all heard them) convinced her that Santa had passed our house because she was still awake.

We watched our children grow. Her baby rolled over by herself and grew her first tooth. My child learned about nouns and verbs, and how to scramble eggs.

But my friend missed that strange, cold land, Ohio, and her baby was without grandparents to note with amazement and adoration, the miracle of baby evolving into child. And so, one rainy, almost spring day, my friend left Texas and me.

My friend called the other day. We talked of husbands, new jobs, children growing, and how hard it is to find a friend.