Not a terribly auspicious start, and indeed, in temperament we are practically complete opposites, and probably shouldn't be friends at all, but as it happened, Emma and I became housemates that first year, and dear friends ever after. (Emma, clearly not her name because I like pseudonyms, earned her nickname because of our shared love of Jane Austen. Though, I love Emma much more than she does.) We used to sit on the floor in the hallway of our flat in San Francisco, giggling, scheming, planning, fretting, and, every now and then, studying.
We followed each other to Florida (above), and then she went back to Northern California, to my old home town, and I got to visit her whenever I was home. Now Emma is married and has a little boy--just about the cutest fellow that ever existed. And though it is so hard being far away from friends, and seeing their lives grow without you, every time I come home and visit with her and her family, things fall exactly into place, as if I was never gone. So, though she doesn't read this blog, I've just got to take a moment to say: Happy Birthday!