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connecting the years

published: 2015-05-22

I visited a friend from high school.
“I’m excited” she texted after I said I was on my way.
“Me too,” I said and I felt like a ten-year-old who was about to see a friend she had missed all summer.
As I sat across from her, she spoke of her sisters and brother and parents and childhood. It struck me how little I actually knew of her life. She showed me a book of ink-drawings she had recently made during an art class. The drawings told the story of her childhood. A happy girl in England, Israel and Holland who had fantasies of trees that bore endless sweets and of knowing how to fly and who loved the sea. Who’s father had experienced the holocaust and who understood that you could lose everything over night. That all you have are your brains and they’re all you need to make a new start.
Her book of drawings bridged the years between her childhood and the teenager I knew at school. It also leaped across the years between who we were then and who she is now.
She reads my blog. In essence it does the same.
On driving home I felt empty for leaving what we shared behind. Yet grateful for what connects us.
“I’m excited,” she had written.
“Me too.”

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