Memory Keeper

Years ago, gosh, decades ago, in High School, I had two best friends. One of them was Protestant and beautiful thin and blonde. Her hair had to be swept to the side or she would literally sit on it. Her jeans were always beautifully patched and sewn in the style of the time. She listened to classical music and played the flute. From the green coolness of her bedroom she looked out of her too-wise -for-her-years-eyes and could easily hurl the best, most accurate, sarcastic appraisals of our high school times and I loved her for it. She lived in one of the most beautiful homes I have ever seen, with mahogany trim. It had the perfect entry for a Christmas tree, though they always had it in the living room. We shared Christmas holidays, lots of "firsts" and all the horrors of high school.
The other was raven haired and attractive in a way none of us really understood. She had a certain charisma, a way of influencing people. She was Catholic. She was always tempting fate. She started out in little ways. She grew pot plants on her window sill. When her mother realized what they were, she vacuumed up the leaves. Neither of them said a word about it. Later in her life she was always part of a strong group, and never was just a member of a cult-like group, but was the leader of it. We shared Easter. We shared boyfriends. We shared our other best friend. She convinced us to join the chess club. The boys there would love us, she said.
And I guess I seem myself as the "stocky" brunette. But that can't be true. I was a figure skater and skated hours every day. I wasn't much over 110 pounds at 5'4". I am Jewish and shared my holidays with both of my friends. They came to Seder, to celebrate Hanukkah. Through the years many memories fade. I haven't thought about many of them. All three of us liked to write. We wrote long letters to one another. I have always had a fantasy that I would write a book about those times. I lost track of those two women. I moved to Georgia, one of us was in Africa as a missionary (I told you I have a great book here) and the other lived in NYC. I guess I always wondered if they kept my letters too. I wondered if we shared the same memories.
Years later, my path has crossed with one of them. She has inspired me to write again. Who would have thought, over 30 years ago, I would be here at this keyboard. In front of a machine that only a few (the Mathletes and Chess boys we knew) might have predicted.
She is my memory keeper. And I am hers. I didn't even remember the time we made Hamantaschen for Purim. But she did. And she even posted my old recipe, in my own hand, to her blog..
And so, maybe I will get out the letters that have moved with me from state to state, home to home. Maybe I will reread the journals. Maybe....I will write again. With thanks to my memory keeper.