You never forget your first.
I’d wake up wondering how we’d spend our day. I’d fall asleep reliving what we did. Was it love? Absolutely.
My first best friend, Diane Franz, lived down the street. I don’t remember how we met. I only remember that we never were apart.
We rode bikes, caught fireflies, had sleepovers and hosted dance parties in my parents’ garage. We ate lunch at each other’s houses and spent hours “painting” the sidewalks with water. The youngest of five, Diane was up for any adventure. Her mom, worn out from the before mentioned kids, was happy to allow it.
I moved away the summer before I started third grade. I didn’t find a friend I treasured as much as Diane until high school.
My oldest son’s first best friend is moving this spring. His dad accepted a job in North Carolina. My heart breaks for the two of them.
All of this got me to thinking about the new family moving in down the street and what best friends they may be leaving behind.
“I saw a little girl playing outside Saturday. We’re going down to see if they have any boys,” I say to my husband. I wrangle A. to come with me.
We make a card with all our names (and ages of the boys), our address and phone number. We bake a batch of Ghirardelli brownies to bring.
After ringing the bell, we peek in the front window and see bare rooms. I’m mistaken. They haven’t moved in yet. We slide the card into the mail slot for them to find on their next trip to the new house but don’t want to leave food.
“What should we do with the brownies? We can’t leave them with no one here,” I say.
A. looks at me thoughtfully.
So we do.