There used to be laughter. Plenty of it. Deep belly laughs in private, and muted giggles in a corporate office. A fast-paced friendship that came to a fast-paced halt. Between breakfast dates in the cafeteria, shopping trips downtown and nights on the couch learning new crafts – I couldn’t begin to understand why I let things fall apart. Miscommunication, maybe. Misunderstanding, for sure.

To me, the meaning of a friend has always been and will forever be someone who stays by your side when the rain is falling. No, someone who stays by your side when the rain washes out the sand beneath your feet. I was not that friend. When the sand washed away and there was nothing left but a pit of mud, I stepped aside to keep my feet dry, instead of handing you a towel to dry your own. I broke my own meaning of friendship. It took me months to realize, but I finally did.

From March until January, there was no laughter. At least not for the two of us together. Separately, sure. There was a pit in my stomach where our belly laughs used to be. I tried to fill that void with breakfast burritos, crochet hooks and muted color palettes – all things that reminded me of our friendship.

For months I fought against my heart and my gut. I knew what had to be done. I knew what was right. As the snow fell, I swallowed my pride to fill the empty pit in my stomach.

And now we can laugh. Between glasses of wine, following recipes from cookbooks and learning new crafts once again, we can laugh.

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