Happy Birthday, Sus.

If you keep getting so upset, I’m not going to take you to the airport anymore, she says.

I’m staring straight through the windshield but I imagine gentle creases in the corners of her clear blue eyes as she says this to me.

Very funny, I say, barking out something between a laugh and a sob.

She moves her hand across the center console, palm up, and I slide my hand into hers.

Our warm palms kiss and our fingers interlace.

The car is quiet now, save my staccato breathing, and I think about the countless times we’ve been like this. Hands intertwined and quiet.

I think about my chubby, dimpled hand in hers as she dropped me at kindergarten and promised I would be able to find help to locate Mrs. Eckert’s room day after day. I think about her bending down, arms wrapping around my miniature frame, telling me she’d be waiting for me when I got home.

I think about her pressing her hand into mine through a thick coverlet, while my other hand gripped a worn copy of Nancy Drew.

You can read again tomorrow, but it’s late, she said. I groaned in protest. Turn the flashlight off and go to bed, please, she said, laughter in her voice. I laughed too, dogeared my page, and squeezed my eyes shut, wondering how far away tomorrow would be.

I think about my French-manicured pre-teen hand in hers as we buried Fred.  It’s going to be fine, she said, and I knew it was not, fine. But I also knew that she wanted it to be fine for me, at her most aggrieved.

I think about my ring-adorned hand in hers just before she left me at my freshman college dorm at GWU. Be brave, she whispered. Make friends, she pled.  I love you¸ she promised.

I think about her sitting on the edge of my childhood bed, her hand resting on mine, which was resting on my abdomen. The back of my other hand was pressed against my eyes, willing away the day. All the days.

I know you can’t tell now, she said, but it’s for the best. He doesn’t deserve you, you know? You deserve better.

Do I? I asked.

You know you do¸ she said.

I wasn’t sure. I’m still not sure. She has always been sure.

I think about her hand in mine for graduate school graduations and award nominations. I think about our hands pressed together during weddings and funerals and after every single ruinous breakup. I think about the way we clasp hands during each Joyce Theater performance and how our hands find each other between the front and back seat of Dad’s Volvo during every drive to the house in Massachusetts.

At birth, I was her daughter and she was my mother. But our friendship? That has been years in the making. Our friendship was born from over four decades of joy and heartache, success, and failure, and all the lessons. Our deep, true, and abiding friendship came after.  Long after this dance of our hands.

You see, I needed her to be something more than my friend, at first. Over the forty-two, nearly forty-three years I’ve lived on this planet, she has been my guiding light and confidante. She has been my source of inspiration and biggest champion. She has set limits and provided opportunities and lit my way more times than I can count. She has corrected my misconceptions and offered me advice and allowed me to make all the mistakes in order to be truly humbled.

She is a champion for children and a relentless social activist, and in me, has instilled the same passions and compassion. She is a lover of all things culture, and in me, has cultivated the same appreciation. When I see a new restaurant or find a new experience and send it to her via text message or maybe Instagram or perhaps email, the only response I ever get is: Let’s pick a date.

She is the only person I’ll really go to Marshalls with and I can barely step into a Trader Joe’s without her, and I know I’ll never tire of her making friends with every human behind every register and on every movie ticket line.

What? she always asks, eyes wide with innocence, I just asked how her day was, that’s all.

She makes every colorful kaftan and schmatta look chic and loves matching sets of everything.  

I co-founded a podcast and listen to audio books and have joined a banned book club because of her.

She taught me that some Sundays are better when you don’t shower until 8 PM and it’s nice to get your nails done on occasion and every home looks better with a vase full of flowers and every celebration deserves ice cream.

She is a wonderful cook but doesn’t really cook, but when she cooks, finds the most complicated recipes in existence. The most steps, the weirdest ingredients, the most challenging assembly. And it’s always delicious.

She loves a good tablescape and loathes exercise but enjoys a good stroll.

She took care of Harriet in the way I would want to be taken care of, in that way that’s endlessly selfless and breathtakingly painful to witness. And she never complained. Ever.

She gets giddy with excitement after every time she speaks to her grandchildren and loves hanging out with Doug and treasures her friendships and connections.

We have been pals since the day she brought me into the world, but our friendship is something we’ve grown with effort and tenderness and the utmost care.

She has made me angry and I’ve frustrated her, often, and still, we have always found a way to talk things through.

For forty-two, nearly forty-three years, Susan Lynn Heller Fisher has slipped her hand into mine and given me the gift of love and friendship and comfort and courage.

People will often tell me that I’m lucky to have her as a mother and the only thing I can think to say is: I agree.

To my powerhouse of a mother, and my dearest friend: happiest of birthdays to you. You have been a gift to this planet for seventy years and a gift for me for nearly forty-three, and I hope to hold your hand for many, many years to come.

x

L.