How did we come to be adults? Young ones, stupid ones, new ones, maybe...but adults nonetheless. We aren't kids anymore, at least. I can't rely on anyone but myself to get my laundry washed.
Stephanie sent me a package this week, and I realized as I pulled a scarf from brown paper that I do still have the capacity to love someone with unabashed fervor. When I saw the tiny book she'd enclosed as well, I nearly cried.
We aren't kids anymore. I remember meeting her as a 12 year old, though, and sometimes I'm still struck with the same admiration for this girl. She's the same Steph that made beaded lizards in Insights class. She's the same Steph who wrote with perfect lettering, the one who recommended books I'd thought were too grown-up, the one who got me into trouble with after-school wanderings that took place without a phone call home, warning mom that I was out and about and not on my way back from school. She knows me.
I love her.