a song for me, a story for her.

I have it in my head that I write better in the mornings. I do not know if this is true, but in case, I have decided to pretend that it's morning, and I am here sipping coffee on a coffee stained couch before the rest of the world has made it out for the day. Ryan Adam's Demolition album is playing in my ears, and this is appropriate for two reasons. One, it's a good morning album. The pace of a morning that belongs fully to me is slow, but not too slow. I don't want the music to put me back to sleep, but rather ease me into the day. Reason number two is a person, a friend. I am writing this post because of her, and I am listening to Ryan for the same reason. She was his fan first, and her love for his music is what prompted me to buy my first Ryan album. 

I moved to Tulsa in the winter of 2006. I grew up in the area, so it was near home, but my familiarity to the city was relegated to a four mile span of shopping, somewhere in the mess of seventy-first street. Though I had always been near Tulsa, I hadn't ever been a Tulsan. I began working for the wal-mart of coffee the following January, which brought into my life a few Tulsans, and from that, my very own residence in this city. 

I remember the first time I saw this friend, this fellow Tulsan, that I am writing about. I was the new girl working behind the bar, messy from coffee and a general sense of sadness left-over from the previous season of my life. She walked in wearing a beautiful white coat, her flawless complexion and sincere smile intimidating awkward and insecure me. She sat down gracefully at the seat reserved for her next to my boss. I wondered who she was, and had already decided that she was definitely too cool to befriend me.  

Funnily enough (a phrase she created), she was thinking something similar about my coolness (not to be confused with gracefulness), and our simultaneous intimidation of each other somehow canceled all of that nonsense out, enabling us to become the best of friends, kindred spirits, and all of the other phrases associated with this phenomenon. 

My first summer in Tulsa was beautiful. I had began to come out of the sadness that was still following me around in January, and so much of this growth came because of the beautiful people that were beginning to fill my days. Many of my evenings were spent in her kitchen, consuming delicious food, or her patio, consuming delightful wine. Conversation was easy, and silence was comfortable. 

I remember a conversation from the beginning of our friendship. We were sitting outside at the cafe where we worked, having just finished up yoga, sipping iced beverages in the sunshine. We talked about what we wanted to do, and the creativity we had in common. She was about to marry the love of her life, and trying to finish up her degree. We began to talk about what a surprise Tulsa was to the both of us, and how much we actually really enjoyed it. I asked her if she thought she would move, and she said if she did, it would likely be because of her future husbands' future residency. I asked when that would be as, even then, I didn't want to imagine being in Tulsa without her. She said two years, I breathed out, and sighed on the inside. "Surely I will be gone by then", I thought to myself. Surely not. 

I spent the summer of 2008 in Asia, leaving her to peruse through the brutal Oklahoma humidity without me. I missed the people in my life while I was there, but most of my emotional capacity was spent figuring out the foreign ways of the culture around me. There wasn't anything around to remind me of anything in particular. I was being cushioned by change (perhaps this is one of the reasons I like it so much). I didn't question my friendship with her while I was away, but I didn't fully appreciate it either. 

When I returned to Tulsa summer was inching towards fall, and I was inching away from most of the things around me. I wasn't quite ready to leave traveling behind, and not quite ready  to return to this place. My confusion and inner angst that followed me home were, this time, cushioned by the familiar. I was glad to see my friend. I was thankful for her care, thankful to be in her presence and for understanding way, though I still didn't fully appreciate her. 

This spring marked the two years that couldn't keep from passing, the two years we had talked about over iced beverages. She graduated, and so did her (now) husband. He applied for residencies, and she prepared to move wherever is was that he matched. Texas got him and consequently, her, which gave me yet another reason to dislike the Lonestar State. I helped her move her belongings into a U-Haul truck, thinking more about the post moving margaritas that were going to be consumed than her upcoming and inevitable absence from my summer. While loading their things, her husband grabbed her bicycle to roll up the ramp, intending to lean it alongside his. She stopped him, and let him know that her bike stays. He looked at her with confusion, and she met his glance and informed him, "I am leaving it with Meredith to use. Her bike got stolen and she rides it to work. I ride mine once a year." He (I think somewhat objectionably) obliged. After the margaritas, I stuffed the bike in my trunk, gave her a hug, and made my way home. She left for Texas the following morning. 

Last week I received an email from Itunes, informing me that this very dear friend Chris had gifted an album to me; Tom Petty's album Wildflowers. She had told me before that the song reminded her of me, though I wasn't familiar with the tune. I downloaded my gift and synched it onto my ipod. 

After listening to the song, not only did I feel honored, that someone would hear such beautiful, full of life lyrics and think of me, but I also felt cared for. And this is something that this friend of mine can't help but do. She is a caregiver, by nature. This is one of the reason's her husband fell in love with her, and one of the reasons, I now know, I didn't fully appreciate her. There were evenings during our first summer as friends when I was liking someone that wasn't liking me back. I would call her, broke, sad and confused. She would sit me at her kitchen bar and listen while she cooked something comforting especially for me. Just being in her presence would put me at ease, and looking back on that now, so much of that was because of her caring nature. When I moved out of my house with no where to move into last Christmas, she insisted I stay with her. When I told her my bike was stolen, she insisted I take hers. 

I write this because she is so deserving of praise, and because here in Tulsa, in the summertime, I miss her. I understand what she felt last year when I left, and though it's late in coming, I am without her, and fully appreciating her.