My Friend

I met my friend Julie about 20 years ago. We got along well and enjoyed doing the same things. Every week or two we would do something together: go out for a meal or a movie, go hiking, attend a concert. It was a comfortable friendship that worked for both of us.

Then Julie joined a protest march. She carried a sign that said, . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “my friend.”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

8 thoughts on “My Friend”

  1. When I was 5, my folks took me to a dancing studio over a store. As the teacher instructed us to raise legs on the bar, this girl Fran and I started laughing. We couldn’t stop,so the teacher kicked us out. 2016 is our 60th year as friends.

  2. I met my friend Jack in my college days. Before that, I’d mostly been a vodka drinker, but I just felt so grown up drinking brown liquor, so yeah, Jack and I became fast friends, a friendship that spanned nearly twenty years. I remember my sister would say, “You’re drinking whiskey…how can you drink that and call yourself a lady?” when I had a Jack & Coke at Thanksgiving. What, was there some hard and fast rule that to be considered a “lady” one had to only drink fancy wine? Eventually, my friendship with Jack turned into an all out love affair and I started carrying a rounded silver flask in my purse…I loved him so much I needed to have Jack with me at all times.

  3. Diversity has always been the wind driving my ship of life: nationalities, religions, neighborhoods, childhood, adulthood. Because of this anyone, anything I can name my friend (and myself naturally) come from a variety of backgrounds, tastes, mores that influence how we live, play, act, laugh and cry. I really like it that way. I have snooty friends but they tolerate me.I associate with down-and-outers and we have good times together. I have friends who are on tremendous good terms with God and then there are the unbelievers and those always-searching but we dialogue in harmony. Seemingly our differences are never-ending, but when we get together we can each greet each other as “my friend” in unified relationship. In the end, My Friend, we are all earthlings.

  4. My Friend – can we say “friends” because I have the privilege and honor of being BFs with twins?Aha! Isn’t that a switch? I met the younger of the two twins when we were only 17. Then I met her twin sister who was born first. Now if you don’t think it’s been a fascinating journey having each one love me and consider me “her” friend, you are pretty dumb. It’s been a juggling act remaining friends with both of them over sixty years now. Why? Because they each confide in me and tell me things – sometimes about the other. Somehow I have miraculously been able to not have this explode in my face. For it isn’t easy keeping my mouth shut and listening to each side without revealing to the other what one feels. How is that for a challenge? They are both wonderful women and very individual personalities. Actually quite opposite. They are there for me without my ever having to ask. As I am for them. I have to admit I’ve been lucky enough in my life to have found two friends for life. As I’m fond of saying, “double trouble.” I love them dearly. I am truly a lucky woman. I’m sure they feel they are lucky too.

  5. “My friend”. Two words that, to my intense Russian mind, are said too easily. When asked if I made any friends on my first day in school, my reaction was puzzlement: how can make a friend in a day? To a Russian, “friend” is not a word to be used lightly.

  6. My friend and I have been friends ever since we met at college; that was over 40 years ago. Unfortunately, we live in different countries. She lives in Mexico and I live in the United States. We communicate via text and Skype whenever we have a chance. It’s funny, but I’ve found that the further away people are from my surroundings the more effort I put into maintaining the lines of communication open.

  7. We went around looking for her house in the neighbourhood , for most of the forenoon.
    When we discovered it , we saw it almost by chance , for her name-plate was covered with wild undergrowth. Inside, the huge , british-era bungalow, looked like something out of “Jumanji”.
    There were banana, jackfruit and rubber trees all around .
    The driveway was deserted , except for a baby’s pram.
    The concrete path had been swept recently. The light fixture was new.
    I hesitated, then looked in through the open door. She sat at the table, working on her laptop, her back to me.Then she turned .She looked same , only 16 years older.
    My friend.
    I smiled , she shot up from her chair , and shrieked.

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