Reserved Seating

There are two chairs on my balcony. Every night I sit alone, but both chairs are occupied. My caboose is parked in one and Cheryl's in the other.

Okay, so I should explain.

Cheryl Atwood was my cousin and one of my first BFFs. On the second day of 7th grade (I was in 6th) she was diagnosed with Ewing's Sarcoma, a rare bone cancer. She died the following April, 15 years ago this week.

I'm not crazy. I have no illusions that she's 'still here' or in 'heaven' or anything. I guess somehow I've just sort of grown her up with me in my mind. I imagine her as this stunning brunette with long straight hair down her back, a flawless olive complexion, and a penchant for silliness. She flashes a flirty grin at the cute bartender when she explains the Hoegarden is for "Ghostie" (me) and the Guiness is for her-- like her, it's "dark and exactly what he's in the mood for". She hears "The Heart of Life" and laughs, not because she thinks it's funny, but because the words are so obvious. "Of course the 'Heart of life is good', Jen!" Whenever we go "out", Cheryl's ensemble-de-force is a snug black polo (believe me everything's snug on top for her!), practically painted on Sevens jeans, and a pair of purple peep-toe Jimmy Choo stilettos that she kidnapped from my closet over a year ago. (She knows they murder my feet or she totally would have given them back already.) She's always up for a drunken bar-top dance or an impromptu song set. Perfect harmony, our voices. Sometimes we laugh so hard we can't breathe, and she's always quick to point out, "That shit's better than crunches! Venti Starbucks today, chica!" She's never forgotten my birthday, ever. Although I guess it helps that hers is a week before. She's laid-back when I'm not, plans ahead when I don't, forgives when I can't, and apologizes when I won't. In my mind, Cheryl's pretty dope. But then again, she always was.

So when I sit here looking at the empty chair across from me, I think, "It's cool. We cool. You're here if I want you to be."