Book of Days

I remember being young enough that it was new, and old enough to appreciate becoming older. There used to be a Bennigan's on Six Forks. It's long been closed, grounded, and it's now taking on a new life as a high rise condominium building for people who've probably never actually set foot in a Bennigan's.

But it was there. And there we went for Rebecca's sixteenth birthday in a July too many years ago. It was just a bunch of girls. Full of giggles. I was about three years younger than her, but we were close friends. They made her stand on the table while they sang to her, and she smiled a cocktail of embarrassment and sheer joy, and it was in moments like that, that I knew why she and I were kindred spirits. That moment, and many others. Like the times we spent sitting in my driveway once she got her license, talking for hours instead of going inside after dance rehearsals.

She taught me to appreciate quotes and words and astrological signs. She taught me to do a backward shoulder roll. She taught me how to be kind. She showed me the kind of person I wanted to grow into. She taught me how to tan with Banana Boat Number 2 tanning oil. She led by example, and taught me how to see the bigger picture, to find the good in people, and to smile even when it's hard. She taught me that even good people have to skip class once in a while to shop at SteinMart. She helped me laugh during some of the most difficult times in my life.

Then, she became one.

I'll never forget the day my mom and grandmother showed up during third period dance class to pull me out and give me the news. The dance studio sat in a loft above the gymnasium. As my knees hit the floor, I heard my voice echo across the basketball players below. My body started shaking. I weighed 400 pounds. I could have just stayed there for hours.

The last time I saw Rebecca was the day before she left for Florida for college. She came by my house to say goodbye, and to give me some old clothes of hers she wouldn't be taking with her. We hugged, said we'd visit at Thanksgiving when she came home, and bid farewell. She gave me something called an email address, which I was supposed to use to keep in touch with her. That was the first email address I ever saw, and I never used it.

We exchanged a few letters. The last one I got from her, she wrote sitting on the beach. She'd just been cast in a show she was thrilled to be a part of. The quote she wrote on the outside of the letter read: When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. -Helen Keller

I still stare at the closed door that was her life. Her days ended too early. At college, she contracted mono, and though she came home for medical treatment a few days before Thanksgiving, that would be her last holiday. I never got to see her. She was too sick.

I remember being so frustrated as we drove to visit her parents and to see other friends who were grieving. We passed houses with Christmas lights, and I knew then what I still know...I can't see Christmas lights without remembering that awful day, when Christmas lights seemed so out of place. There was just no room in my heart for joy. And for me, there's always a bit of Christmas in July. It's a month full of memories of her. Summer dance competitions and late night conversations. Her birthdays together.

I still have the clothes she gave me. I wear a t-shirt of hers regularly, so worn that the hole in the armpit is large enough for my head. But I wear it to be close to her. I wear it to remind me how to see the good she saw in people...the good she brought out of people. I wear it to remind me to speak her name, and keep her alive. And I guess that's why I'm sharing, too.

I talk to her regularly, and I believe she listens. She was my guardian angel when she was here, and I don't see any reason that would change. Rebecca, your book of days lives on through me. I am so grateful for the memories I have of you, for knowing what a friend should be, and for the imprints you melted into my heart.