I suppose I should thank Mrs. Anderson. As our high school volleyball coach, she brought us all together. Today three of those cardinals are in my home, here in France, a lifetime and a country away, yet, not that much has really changed. We are two spikers. Two setters. And even without the uniforms we are in sync. Passing not the ball, but the memories, and a few glasses of wine to make them all a little more clear.
It didn’t take much to make us hopeful then. A clean pair of Nikes, at the beginning of the season. A red swoosh lifted us off the ground and took us from classrooms to gymnasiums. With no regard to what language your grandmother spoke. No thought to how much money your parent (or parents if you were lucky) made. We simply played. Of course we won and lost, but sitting together under a Mediterranean sun, it all feels like winning.
I have made friends through the years. College. Work. Artistic. Good friends. Really good friends. But there’s something about those who knew you, at the beginning. It doesn’t mean they are better than any newer friends. But they are different. Without explanation, they know the smell of the exhaust on a big yellow bus. Assignments flourished and struggled. Teachers. Sleepovers that began with such good intentions, but ones I couldn’t survive because of missing my mom. These are the friends that not only knew where you lived, but were able to take you home. I’m smiling now, because they still have that power.
The sun is rising. In all of our different uniforms, we will walk together again, with all of wildly different high hopes.
