Is anything real anymore?
Asking for a friend . 😉
And in so doing, another friend comes to mind. Well, three mainly–no, four actually–on Halloween night, 1964.
Dad helps me become a pirate, particularly impressive is the way he ties the scarf around my head. I doubt I told him that but I’ve always remembered it.
My mom uses pinking shears to create my pirate eyepatch. She knew her way around any piece of cloth. I wonder if I thanked her. Probably not.
I don’t remember which parent drew on my mustache or what they used.
It is a financial stretch for my parents to buy new black, corduroy slacks for me but they read the Halloween invitation carefully. This is my first slumber party.
My parents like these girls–a lot. Maybe what they like is the way I act when I am around them. All four of us are 12. We have been in junior high for two months.
This is how we looked Halloween night, 1964.
Maurya is the witch, her pirate mustache fading. She has always been a witch for Halloween but for us, the mustache. Nancy is the pirate next to her. The party host. I am far right.
For reasons understood only by junior high girls, we will not remain friends with the party host.
The three of us go on for the rest of our lives–52 years–together yet separate but never disconnected–no distance too great to come a runnin’. In death, the witch leaves us but the love does not.
The trio is now two pirates, 54 years and counting–still adventurous–in our separate ways but unconditionally connected. A love like no other.
I know that no thing and no one stays. That all life begins and ends in darkness but somewhere in the coming and going is light. Even as the body dies, the brain insists on a final light show.
It is the stories that stay, even when the who, what, and why all blur into one another, a collage of our time, our collective experience. As real as it gets.