my friend F

There is something sweet and soft about childhood friends. I met F in high school, about 13, which I consider still chilhood,and by that I mean, unformed,the clay still moist, just at the cusp of womanhood, with so much ahead... We were buddies in a small italian class ( most kids took spanish or german) and that intimacy in the tiny 2 rows of desks kept us busy whispering and giggling. Who knew me then , beside my family, and who still knows me now...... Only F, and her sister. It has been a lifetime of mirroring our experiences, our dreams and our pains.Who can still say " I saw your dad on T.V" or like me, who can remember the kitchen at rue d'O. with F's mom busy at the stove, a gauloise dangling at her lips,a sweet Maguerite Duras, keeping the home fire burning with 3 kids, alone? me, for one, may be a few others...Now, we have a ritual when I come to Paris. F takes the day off work and we meet for lunch and whatever tempts us: an exhibit, a walk.Our closeness is made of a lifelong connection, a delicious concern for each other and our families, a tender window opened both toward the past and the future. This last visit, we met at Le Pre Verre and had a great meal, then on a soft hazy afternoon, we set off on foot to The jardin des Plantes, to marvel at the landscaping and to walk arm in arm toward a sweet only good bye.....