A small bouquet of rosemary sits content in its glass vase on her sunny kitchen window sill, a fresh loaf of banana bread quietly cools on a rack nearby, an earthenware mug of tea waits while she hangs last laundry on the clothes line just outside by the dogwood tree.
She’s one of my oldest friends, we toddled together through nursery school and up through the years. Hers was the house we’d ride our bikes to after school and make pizza bagels in the toaster oven. Sontine’s was the trampoline house (and the freshly baked yummy treats house), ours was the “playing space ship” house jumping at dizzying heights between our garage and shed roofs, and Astrid’s was the space trolley house, where we’d zip between apple trees and, on lucky occasions, make apple cider from scratch. It was a precious childhood brimming with memories: riding bikes around town, playing soccer with the boys on the school fields, endless hours swimming at the town pool, lemonade stands, and independence. This beautiful small circle of girlfriends made those years so very happy.
She now lives with her family in the middle of peaceful and idyllic Maine. She’s a garden designer by trade, talented doodler in secret, and calm and kind always. Her layered blonde hair has turned brown with the years, but her sparkly blue attentive eyes are unchanged. She never pretends life is perfect, because it’s not, but there certainly seems to be a bit of stardust circling her. When I think of simple pleasures [and natural good taste] it’s easy to think of her.