On a 13th day of May, in a faraway land that was presumably very sunny, an M was born.
I wasn’t there for all that.
I was there many years later, in a windy city, in a class of 3, sometimes 4 students, containing one mysterious personage called mendacious.
You weren’t actually called that then. That would come later.
But surely there was nothing random about this intersection of lives. I blew in and out of that windy city in under a year. And me being fully submerged in my phase of complete reticence and somewhat fearful of the world – we might not even have talked much or hung out much during that time. But it didn’t stop me from being in awe of you, the Girl Who Wanted to be an Artist. With your curious short stories about dust motes and your sketchbook that transformed into another universe under your hand. Your astounding color choices. Your black and white photographs of a gerbera daisy engulfed in flames.
One day our teacher, not unlike Glenda the Good Witch, said, “You two girls will be friends for the rest of your lives.” And I think in that moment she made it so.
This girl not yet named M pursued me. Somehow made me answer the phone. And speak. And speak more. And say truthful things, laden with snark. We emailed. She made me blog. And keep blogging. She became M, and I Pen.
M wore down the concrete that lay over my head.
Among many other things.
And today is the anniversary of the day she entered into the world.
I’m thankful for you every day, my dear! May your 35th year unfold with wonder and energy and many opportunities to inform the world of your awesomeness. For you are, truly, a gift.
Happy Birthday, Mendacious.
all my love!