A Light Holds Us Close

     The lump in my throat grows slowly as I hang onto a borrowed, too-large gray sweater for dear life. Small portions of golden potatoes and thinly-cut pieces of steak au poivre steam gently on the dinner table. The lights are too bright, the strangers around me too quiet. I am too quiet. Then, a familiar voice whispers in my ear.

     "Like, I wanna get some duck," she says in what is her best attempt at a New York accent. My shoulders relax at hearing her voice.

     "You think duck is a staple food in New York?" I laugh. It only becomes more uncontrollable when my friend's dad silently pulls out his phone to start recording us laughing, grinning wide. I've never heard her, or myself, for that matter, giggle this hard. Apparently, neither has her dad. I feel like a child again, free, as if I were at recess. My giggles erupt into gleeful cackles echoing across the guest-filled table, its inhabitants both scandalized and delighted, a sparkle appearing in their eyes. Gone is the air of French reservedness.

     The elusively acrid yet sweet smell of French cigarettes twirls its way, like a ballerina, to the dining room from the balcony, where some adults are smoking, as we try to contain ourselves. I am visiting my Parisian friend, Maélie, and, even though it has been nine months since I last saw her, it feels like we never missed a day without seeing each other. I feel completely happy as I play with the gilded edges of my napkin.

     I’m reminded of how I used to unfold my napkin and place it gently on my lap, legs kicking softly under the table that reached my nose. As a child with the manners of a lady, my habits earned me the description of being an “old soul”. I preferred to discuss literary masterpieces at the adults' table, rather than discuss the latest episode of Octonauts with the rest of the children. That made it hard to find friends with interests, or characteristics, in common. So, when I found my best friend, Julia, at eight years old, it was like finding a needle in the haystack. Julia did not go to the same school as I did, which, on top of the fact that we sometimes had too much homework to play, made it harder to keep in touch. I struggled with this for a while, often coming home from a playdate frustrated that I didn't know when I'd be able to see the one person my age who understood me best again.

     Then, the pandemic came. We could only FaceTime, and that happened so infrequently. Feeling disappointed, I was hesitant to say anything. I felt like I didn't have the courage to admit I needed her. All I could see from the FaceTime screen was my friend zoning out, talking to her mom instead of to me. I knew she didn't mean to be rude; it's hard for many to focus on FaceTime or Zoom. 

     Miraculously, finally, I mustered the courage to tell her that it still hurt. "I...I wish you'd call me more often, Julia. I miss talking to you. I miss hanging out," I pleaded. I felt angry, yet delicate. Vulnerable. Her once glazed-over gaze snapped back to me, her eyes now clearly focused. I waited to see how she would respond. Will she be angry at me for saying it? I wondered.

     "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just not used to this...I'm trying to be a better friend."

     Shocked, I managed to say "Thank you,” blinking once. Twice. Perhaps that wasn’t so bad.

     Nowadays, we meet more often. Granted, sometimes, a sea of chemical reactions and scenes from Hamlet separates us. When we do spend time together, it is glimmering with our walks to the park, our smoothie-slurping sessions, and our endlessly exhilarating Spit card games complete with my feigned hyperventilation. Friends for six years, we’re still going strong. It no longer feels so hard to not see her often. Not because I don't miss her, but because I know she's always just a text away.

     My memory meanders to me sitting at a table in a cozy cafe on a sweltering hot June day, texting my Italian friend, Sofia, directions to the little haven. Once she’d sat down, we talked for hours, our discussion illuminated with talk of books, fairy tales, and our dreams. I didn't feel disappointed knowing she'd be going to Italy for the whole summer. We’d meet again when she’d come back, when the heat would make way for autumn crispness.

     I came back home and peeled off my tote bag from my sweaty shoulder, relieved the AC was on. Turning to settle in, a Christy Evans quote on our magnet-covered fridge caught my eye: "Friends are like stars. You don't always see them, but you know they're always there.” I held my breath. I’d finally understood. Even if I don't go to the same school as my friends do, even if we live in different countries, that doesn't mean we can't keep in touch. I don't need to be in the same classroom or at the same gossip-laden, bubble-gum-popping, Tik-Tok-captivated lunch table as my friends to feel complete. It’s not the constant connection that makes our friendship strong. It’s the conscious efforts to set aside time for each other, to send an "I'm grateful for you" meme, to support each other when we really need it, that makes our friendship indestructible.

     My mind rushes back to the present. I’m out on the terrace, watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Surrounded by glowing smiles, a warmth replaces the lump in my throat. I know the real reason the City of Light shines so bright.