When I was little, growing up in a rough-hewn but beautiful patch of rural country in the South— there was a neighbor girl named Emma. Her family were close neighbors, being a mere mile and a half away.
Though only 7 and 8 years old, we were real friends—the genuine article; reaching into some new but deep reference of wisdom to console each other when times were particularly bad, laughing at any simple thing that tickled us as we played in the sun, her being kind enough to share the small, rare supply of candy she would sometimes have, me being unkind enough to accept.
We parted when I was 10—her family off to some promise of a new beginning and measure of deliverance. I missed her a lot but still didn't realize just how much until the years had gone by some. Now, when I think of her, I am taken with a deep, unexpectedly powerful hope that things turned out ok—for my friend Emma.
Though only 7 and 8 years old, we were real friends—the genuine article; reaching into some new but deep reference of wisdom to console each other when times were particularly bad, laughing at any simple thing that tickled us as we played in the sun, her being kind enough to share the small, rare supply of candy she would sometimes have, me being unkind enough to accept.
We parted when I was 10—her family off to some promise of a new beginning and measure of deliverance. I missed her a lot but still didn't realize just how much until the years had gone by some. Now, when I think of her, I am taken with a deep, unexpectedly powerful hope that things turned out ok—for my friend Emma.
Written Content G.A.M. cc
Gorgeous Little Girl Andi Berger
