Mickey Pierce Silverstein

We hadn’t met yet, but she was on our swing set outside of the back door of my house. I went outside. She was three; I was still two. I didn’t wonder what she was doing there, but I found out she lived in the house next door. When it was time for her to go home, she said her name was Sandy and asked if I wanted to be her best friend. I said yes.

Sometimes even when young, one makes really good decisions. This was one of those times.

Seven years later she gave me this handmade birthday card. We were old friends by then.

If you look closely at the note, she described me as her best friend, a nice sweet girl. She signed her name, then erased it and added the caveat that sometimes she didn’t think I was such a true friend. Then re-signed, Love, Sandy. At the time, I recalled we recently had had a minor to-do in her room. I knew then, as now, that her love was unconditional and our friendship authentic. It still is. It always will be.

We talk now as adults, but often something gets triggered and we are 12-years-old again or in one of our many pretend worlds; seamlessly moving through six decades.

One of my very best decisions was made that day.