In second grade, I made up stories about all the travels my grandparents did (truly, they lived in France right after their marriage, and I thought that afford me the right to talk about them as if they were world explorers). The same year, my parents bought me my first pair of Nike tennis shoes, pure black, ankle high sneaks with a singular white swish on the outside of each shoe. My poor second grade friends now not only had to listen to stories of faux travels taken by my grandparents, but also had to field my aspirations of becoming a famous basketball player because of my new size 12 sneakers. Some friends played privy to my conversation, but most of them found the monkeys bars and tire swing more enjoyable (I don’t blame them).
One friend, though, always offered her ear, no matter how redundant my record player stories got.
Ashley.
The stories, which started in second grade, haven’t ceased (although the legitimacy of them is far more reliable) and Ashley is still listening.
The summer before sixth grade, my sister babysat Ashley and her brother. It was this summer that I spent hours and hours in Ash’s basement as the two of us generated stories of romance between Barbie and Ken or shared our disdain for our fellow friend’s liking of milk with ice. Days turned into nights and endless summer sleepovers began. These sleepovers lasted throughout middle school and high school and laid foundation for memories that are sewn into my veins, my insight, myself.
We went through a chef stage, where we insisted everything we cooked (made mostly in the microwave) should have been on the menu at a prestigious restaurant. During one of our creative moments, we attempted to fry tortillas to make taco salad shells. We nearly started Ashley’s mother’s kitchen on fire. Realizing we failed, we dumped the grease onto the sidewalk on otherwise flawless walkway leading up to the house. Needless to say, the sidewalk is still no longer flawless. Today, when I go to Ashley’s house, the story of chefdom sizzles as I step over the remains of the grease stained sidewalk.
We grew up jointly managing a concession stand during heated summer days and bussing tables on the same restaurant as the sun set. Weekends, throughout the year, were spent traveling to soccer tournaments together or cheering for our brothers at hockey games. Many a notes passed between our fingers regarding crushes, complaints, “I’m sorrys,” and subsequential “I forgive yous.” Phone batteries were exhausted and computer keys worn out after long nights of chatting with the latest instant messenger. Books of words, chapters of stories are indebted to my friendship with Ashley.
I treasured how honestly me I could be with Ashley. Whether my ideas were crazy or noble, whether my stories were boring or intriguing, whether I matched or looked more fitted for a circus, Ashley took me in.
Due to geographical location, I see Ash far too infrequently. However, each time I do, it’s as if time somehow stopped in the months that passed. It would be too cliché, and not nearly enough, to say we pick up where we left off. Rather, we pick up as if we never left off. Laughter immediately laces our beings as stories of our ever- evolving lives turn hours into disappearing breaths of air, enveloping into the invisible time that stands between us. As I animatedly talk about new lovers, new jobs, and old frustrations, Ashley listens as if I’m detailing some triumphant story about the 2nd coming of Christ. Ashley has always listened. For nearly my entire life, I’ve had a friend that has made me feel valued and important simply because she’s been kind enough to offer her ears, to absorb my stories.
Whether talking about tennis shoe swishes or struggles, Ashley has taught me that loving is listening.
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