Palmtree Contemplations

Dear Susan, Ever since my parents told me about your cancer, I have been meaning to write you. Also, last week, I read that wonderful Shakespearian sonnet that Emma Thompson put in Sense and Sensibility and immediately thought of you. Then again, I almost always end up thinking of you when I read Shakespeare, ever since that first day when I walked into your class, and you taught me how read the Bard properly. It's been years since I was your drama student, but the memories of drilling lines on that bare, black stage have stayed with me. Many of the best memories from that time are of you. I even find myself mimicking some of your "Susanisms." For example, whenever I lead a small group study in classes I almost always end with that line of yours, "Any comments, questions, or concerns?" Do you know, it's funny, I heard you say it so many times that now your inflection has become mine. Also, if ever my hair is being willful, my mind conjures up an image of

Nette did not tell me about her boyfriend until a month had passed. My heart and soul were pierced by the sword of bitterness and rejection. A new someone had taken my place, and the affection meant for me was passed on to a man. A man! Ah, the tragedy of it all. I shall not survive! "Stop being so dramatic," Nette says to me in the midst of my bemoaning. "It's not like we're never going to have sleepovers anymore." I roll my eyes at her, not wanting to admit that she is right. Still, now that she's engaged I can't help thinking back over our friendship. I still remember the night Nette and I met. It was literally one minute after my mother had pulled out of the Mayfield parking lot, leaving me on my own for the first time at college. I heard footsteps following me on the way back to Mayfield, turned around, and there she was, all gung-ho to say "Hello! Who are you!" to me. We were neighbors on the Up New hall. I remember greeting her