Dearest Nina

It was that sadness I detected in your voice that made me realize you did not want a goodbye dinner with us because it was too emotional.  Somehow, it made it easier for me to embrace your move once I understood you could not say goodbye in that way, either.

I remember the first time you visited our apartment. Sitting on the couch and fawning over the new puppy as Matthew sat next to you. I walked in carrying groceries and was appalled that I had not cleaned that morning, but the only thing you cared about was our 8-week old puppy romping around the floor at your feet. It was that night we were invited to a Christmas party at the neighbor's and you wore a large sparkling necklace that I admired. You laughed and told me it was an old Christmas decoration and invited me to see the art on the walls of your apartment. We walked together and I admired your artwork and it was then you began to tell me your life stories.

Our friendship neither grew quickly nor slowly. It just was. We visited one another's apartments, you with your dog and I with mine. You watched my pup grow, gave advice, and took him for countless walks when we worked during the day.

Weeks and months passed. We became fond of one another. You left us magazines at our doorstep and cards for our birthdays. I made sure to save you extra portions of our dinners and would scramble quickly to knock on your door in hopes you'd not yet eaten. You were kind to try the food either way.

We have sat at the huge window in your living room and looked out over the treetops and talked about life. We talked of the most intimate things, we talked of the silliest. You told me so many escapades of your youth that I decided I should want to write a story.

You took a fall and hurt yourself badly. You had to re-learn how to walk. And my dog and I visited you in rehab and you were so proud of how he'd grown.

I gave you a journal to record your memories.


We drove to restaurants, talked about sex, gave advice, were upset with one another, joked with each other, always helped the other with anything.

We went to the movies once, remember? You didn't like it because you cannot hear very well anymore. But we sat there together through the whole production and afterwards it was very late, but you wanted to go out with me. We went downtown and visited the cigar shop and spoke with friends. I held your hand to steady you as we walked along the uneven sidewalk.

Next week you will move. I have ignored this fact for as long as I am able. Yet tonight you told me that this weekend you will come and drop off a desk you want us to have and you will say hello and goodbye and that will be it. You will leave.

You will drive to Florida and move into your retirement home.

No longer will I bring you food next door. Never again will I see you out for mail or rap on your door in my ski socks and pajama bottoms in hopes to talk about life. These are treasured memories, my friend. They tell the story of how you helped me learn was it is to be a woman, a business owner. You encouraged me to be myself. You are a part of the first years of our marriage, you are the third owner of our dog. You are one of my dearest friends.

You are only moving, I know.

But oh, how you will be missed.