A friend from high school is getting married today.
We met in Spanish class freshman year, but became close friends (best friends in school) the following year. I always joked that though she had her self-professed redneck family, she wasn’t a cracker — she was a Nilla wafer. I called her Nilla from then on. She called me Sammy Shine (mostly, just Shine).
On Fridays after school, Nilla and I would grab ice cream at Bruster’s or coffee at the Bean Hole, then watch movies. We scribbled and passed notes to each other during classes. We squealed about other’s first boyfriends. We offered hugs and chocolate for the subsequent breakups. We had girly sleepovers and watched chick flicks. We read and commented on each other’s livejournal entries. We commiserated with each other, as Filipino and southern parents tended to be equally strict. We were inseparable.
Senior year, I moved to Alpharetta. We were able to visit each other a few times. I even went to prom with her and my other friends from Birmingham. But proximity seemed to be a contingency on which some friendships rely. As time passed, phone calls and texts became less frequent. Every few months, we catch up on each other’s lives, but it’s not the same.
Nilla is the first of my friends (who I was close to, once) to get married. She was the friend dreamt of being married and having a family. Though we’ve grown up and grown apart, I’m looking forward to celebrating (what she has always thought would be) the best day of her life.