I tried to break up with my best friend before.  I thought she wasn’t “good” for me.  And maybe she wasn't then.  

I didn’t come to the decision easily, but certainly carelessly.  I agonized about it, but didn’t actually let her know that I wanted out.  I armed myself with an arsenal of passive aggressive weapons: unreturned calls and texts; ignoring her when she was in town; etc.  I didn’t want to cut her out but I needed space.

"A" was my best friend during middle school, and then again when we reunited as post-college lost souls.  She was was in law school; i was in working as a paralegal.  I visited her in Miami during her spring break and we had fun the way that only two girls who really know each other have fun.  You get in each others’ world.  You laugh at other people.  You dance like you don’t care at lame clubs.  We made fun of the boys that hit on us at the beach.  Anxious, pretty, Mexican American, bold with thick wavy hair, she was my perfect complement.  We were always peering into the White Man’s world and dabbling in it, professionally and romantically.

When she dabbled too far and starting dating a man who caused her agony and fed her anxiety, I was there for the daily updates.  But, I had a baby now and also had my own agony.  There were too many suitcases for me to account for.  I couldn’t get into her world with my own competing narrative.  I was a good listener but i wasn’t that good.

When my mom had a stroke last winter, A was the first friend i called after months of being estranged.  I cried into the the phone and she held me in her silence in only the way that a person who really knows you can.  She held the silence and I was comforted.