Celebrating 19 and 6

This afternoon I’ll board a plane and head off west.  I’ll arrive in a land of mountains and birthdays and friends.

My dear roommate from college is turning 25.

I still remember when she arrived at 19.  We were freshmen navigating our first semester in college.  19 seemed so old.  I mean, one more year and she wouldn’ t be a teenager anymore.

I was proud of the birthday party I put together in the back of our dorm.  I made a cake, decorated with streamers, and she pretended to be surprised.  I had a lot to compete with — six weeks prior, she threw the largest birthday party of my life.  And I didn’t have a clue.

She’s the roommate who took my suggestion of matching bedspreads and, very kindly, said no thank you.

She’s the one who participated in my scheme of hiding a bread machine in our closet and making bread every Thursday morning.  Our enjoyment was short-lived.

She’s the one who rode in the ambulance with me to a rural Michigan hospital after I collapsed.  And she helped me learn to like cheese and nuts once I discovered my hypoglycemia.

I’ve been counting down the days for over a month.  The only sad part about the visit is that there will be someone missing, our dear friend who participated in all schemes formerly mentioned (she protested the bedspread when she learned of it) and others not disclosed. 

She’s surpassed any of our adventures by living abroad with her husband and two small children and making a beautiful home in Italy for the school year.  She’ll be with us in spirit and over skype, but it just won’t be the same.

Happy Birthday, dear Laurel.  Come home soon, dear Amy.  Here’s to celebrating 19 and 7 all together next year.