Sunday, October 21, 2012

Who She Is

The first time he told me about her he said she was "mean". I couldn't meet her, because she wouldn't be nice. She was mean to everyone. It's just the way she is.

The first time I met her she looked at me just a little. She let me into her space and asked no questions, but the air in the room shifted and I caught it - the girl wasn't mean. She was wounded.

If you line her life up with mine, they might meet in the middle, but just barely. There's no overlap. It should never make sense that we're friends.

But we are anyway.

In just a few months, we've moved up her list and she's moved up ours. We help each other in different ways: I run her all around creation; she puts life into perspective for me and cracks me straight up.

We wedge ourselves into the tiny house for the party with all her confusing, mish-mashed family and somehow, despite the fact that it doesn't make an ounce of sense, it feels like a foregone conclusion. It seems like maybe this was the way life was always supposed to be lived.

We were meant to be family. We're so very different, yet here we are, huddled up together, looking for the very same things, finding some of them through each other.

Let me tell you, she's everywhere. She's at the CVS and in the pick-up line. She's giving you her change. She's pushing a stroller down the street. She's avoiding eye-contact, but if you come her way, she won't back up. She has few resources and a laundry list of grudges. Maybe she has a few tattoos and there's a good chance she's got smoker's breath. She has pain that rages down below sea level; she's got her reasons. She's been mistreated and abandoned by almost everyone. You can't even imagine, but just wait, she'll tell you all about it.

This girl? She can start to save you, if you let her. But you've got to go find her first.