We shared a room as little girls.
Tucked in bed with hot milk and honey,
we’d discuss our favorite queens of the silver screen,
weaving romances for them that were just like the fairy tales we loved.
After we were grown and on our own,
we’d meet at parties, light a cigarette,
grab a glass of wine and stand in a corner all night,
talking about the latest Hollywood scandal and the best of the anti-hero movies.
But then something was said or not said,
and something was done or not done,
and there was hurt and anger and betrayal all around.
I moved south and she moved west and
there was no more talking between us.
We’re old ladies now and thinking of getting together.
“But what if there’s nothing to say?” I ask my husband.
He reminds me that we’re still the same people,
reminds me that when she visited, we’d be yakking before she was through the door. “And if you run into a silence, you can always make a pot of tea and watch your favorite rom-com.”