If I was a lottery playing type of gal, I’d have three especially lucky numbers, the times of my childrens’ births: 7:31 a.m. for Danny, 4:44 p.m. for Annie and 9:58 p.m. for “Baba” Jay, whose first birthday we’re celebrating today. Jay was born on the 13th, a number that many find unlucky but which has been a special number all my life.
On this exact day 39 years ago, Senta, my best friend until I was 32, was born. She always told me that she was born on a Friday the 13th and because of that we would always have good luck on any such day. Oh, and by the way, she also had ESP and other magical powers because of this special birthday. So, of course, when I was induced on May 13th last year, I was excited. It was a powerful day and one with much meaning for me. It’s just sad that Senta will never know that my littlest boy shares her same birthday.
Before you pull out the Kleenex, I must warn you: there is no tragic story here. Actually, there is not much of a story at all, which is shocking for two girls who started writing novels (about Becky Jones and Jill Johnson—what other names would girls stuck with Senta and Eileen pick) when they were four. Who danced to “We are the Champions” on the record player and then ran down to the rocky beach to enact their latest movie, often involving killer lobsters or nuclear disasters or Ricky Springfield. Who built Little People houses by the fireplace in the winter, then swam and roller skated their way through the beach all summer, together every minute of every day. Who spied on neighbors and were sure that the house next door had ghosts (including seeing a bloody window on full moon nights). Who were best friends from the age of three when one chubby little girl walked up to another on the sandy beach, bucket in hand, and asked if she wanted to be friends.
We were, as a friend recently said of Danny and her son, cut from the same cloth. Senta was an only child and I was like one as well, as my siblings were 12 and 16 years older. She lived with her grandparents and I spent my weekends and summers with my great aunt and uncle a few doors down. We shared everything growing up—meals, dreams, frustrations, stories of first kisses and even a boy or two. We were like sisters in every sense, even in the backseat slapping fights we’d have each summer when Senta came on vacation with my family. We were playmates that became soulmates. Through college, through divergent lives (Senta an actress in New York, me somehow ending up in tech) we stayed close. Sure, we didn’t talk as much but when we did talk it was as if we had just paused for a breath.
Then something happened. Shortly after my wedding, Senta called one day and told me she was leaving her current gig doing theater in Sonora and heading back to New York. She had ditched the weird boyfriend she’d had, and was moving back to her home. I’d said I’d call her in a week, but it actually took me a month. And then she never took that call, let alone replied to any letter. Even her grandmother would give my mother no leads. And that is the end of the story.
After a few more attempts this year, I’ve given up. But of course I’ll never forget her, especially on this day. So as I watched Danny with his own best buddy at preschool today, a beloved placel he’ll finish in mere weeks now, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad even on such a happy day. Next year will mean a new school, new friends, new adventures. But I know firsthand that Danny will miss his best friend, the guy who laughs at all his jokes, who saves him a seat at snack, who loves to play all the same silly games. And so we will work hard to keep in touch, to stay together. But even if someday their paths untangle, I know it will be OK. Because, like me, he will have the memories of a true friendship. And that, more than a secret birthday power, is a gift to be treasured for an entire life. Even if some day that friend just stops calling you back.
So much for not being a sad story. It makes me want to cry.
Posted by: Dan Conway | 05/19/2010 at 02:36 PM