Dear Jen

This is to the girl I met back in junior high. It's been eighteen years now. When I met that girl, she had two broken arms from rollerblading down the biggest hill in our neighborhood. She was tough, strong, brave and wild. I was in awe of her then and I am in awe of her now. If I would have heard of roller derby when I was fourteen, I would have labeled her The Quintessential Roller Girl.

To that girl, my forever best friend, this is what you are to me:

You are my adolescence. Marlboro Reds and ripped jeans and Seattle grunge and too much acid and The Hurricane Cafe at 3AM and psychedelic mushrooms and Lollapalooza and being barefoot and dirty and hysterical laughter and running with a crowd of boys and drawing and writing and music and rebellion and experimentation and so, so, so much fun.

You are my entire history. You hold the blueprint of every move I've made. It is recorded within you. It is encoded in your DNA now.

If someone asked me to describe you, I'd prattle off a long winded explanation that would sound something like this:

"An Amazonian warrior in a waitress uniform, torn fishnets, tattoos peeking out everywhere, a baby on each hip, a string of profanities in German, hazel eyes twinkling with mischief and a laughing mouth."

You are the girl that everyone loves. You are the mother I wish I could be.

When you moved to Florida, I was devastated. It was the Fourth of July. You told me that as your plane took off, you could see fireworks bursting in the night sky. It was the day of your own independence, your chance to fly away from Seattle and make something new. But for me, life seemed to stand still. I cried every single day for months after you left. I still cry when I think about it, and it's been a decade now.

Shortly after your move, I sent you a card. On the cover, it had a photograph of a little girl closing her eyes as she played the classic game of Hide and Seek. The text read "Eight...Nine...Ten." On the inside of the card it said, "Okay. You can come back now." The offer still stands, even a decade later. You can come home now. Please?