Was it on our summer bike rides to Glen Oak Park? When we would ride down Prospect, past tennis courts, to swings where we would spend a morning or an afternoon laughing and singing. Friends play together.

Was it at the concerts – concerts for which she had slept outside to buy tickets – where she stayed with me at the port-a-potty while I got sick and, then, got better. Where she smiled and cheered and sang the songs along with me? Friends go to concerts together.

Was it on those days when I dreaded the lunch bell? The days when I would come with my chocolate shake and French fries and find her? Someone to eat with me when I didn’t have a friend? Good friends like you when no one else does.

Was it when she, back at home, sent packages and notes and emails and all her love during my first days away at college? Friends think about you when you’re not there.

Was it when she believed in me, in a dream? When she would watch me play my guitar, sing my words, and then applaud? Was it when, after one dream faded into another, she applauded still? Friends cheer you on, in all your dreaming and yielding and dreaming again.

Was it when I cried? Cried so many tears over when and how and if he would ever find me. When she prayed with me and cried, too; cried even when I didn’t know? Friends cry secret tears for you and hard tears with you.

Was it the day she sat in the front row and gave me away, witnessing the fulfillment of all the aching and waiting and praying? Friends set you free, love your new friends, and smile at you in your white dress.

Was it when she moved away? When phone calls and emails and trans-Atlantic packages became a lifeline? When so many things changed in so many ways? Friends grow together when miles divide, thriving in distance and new territory and grace.

Or was it when I began to understand more? More about life, about the world, about her? Friends try to understand each other and, when they can’t, (because some caverns of the soul will always be a mystery), they love anyway.

I don’t know. I can’t name the place or time when my mom became my friend. I only know she did, and she is; and I have an inkling that maybe she has always been. Friend. And Mom, too.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Happy birthday, dear friend.

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