I recently received a book of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The person who gave me this book had no idea that I have any associations with her poetry, nor do I think anyone knows. My best friend growing up was somewhat obsessed with the poet, and though an obssession does not necessarily mark the thing, A's love of Edna St. Vincent Millay will always stay with me.

A and I went everywhere together, since we were fifth graders- did everything together. We were one anothers' confidantes and fellow dreamers. In a tiny South Dakotan town, that's both rare and important. We were both reading addicts, both theatre kids, both a little bizarre for a town of 924. We took road trips together, we went to plays together, and when I formed a theatre troupe with some kids from other towns, she was right there with me. When we went to different colleges, we continued to stay in contact, and after college, when she went to Mongolia for Peace Corps, she confided that I had been the only one to remain in contact with her- that none of her college friends had written her once in the two years. When she came back, she moved to Minneapolis, where I was living and also where some of her college friends were living.

But something had changed. She left for Mongolia as an environmentalist, an open-hearted optimist, thoughtful and careful- and became even more so when she was there, but when she came back her first purchase was an enormous white SUV, and she spoke very viciously- deriding and inexplicably tearing to shreds anything I mentioned I liked, telling me mean things that she had done to different men. It became hard to spend time with her. Eventually we just stopped calling and spending time with one another. I would call on her birthday and leave her birthday greetings, we'd have a pleasant conversation, and not talk again for another year. When I last contacted her, she'd moved to New Mexico with her girlfriend, and was studying linguistics. Things seemed to have changed for the better again, and we corresponded for a month or two, but eventually we were both too busy, and silence once again found its way between us.

She called on my birthday a month ago, and I didn't call her back. I called this morning, and left her a message, asking her to call me, telling her that I'd like to try again.

The Wednesday afternoon update: A called me back. We talked for half an hour, everything from my family to hers, to what she was doing to what I was doing. She sounds good, has finished her first year of grad school and working a somewhat related summer project, as well as acting as nanny for a two year old girl who may or may not have a raisin up her nose. The conversation was very nice and easy, and though I didn't have a lot to say for myself, it was really pleasant to talk to her. I'm calling her again this weekend from my parents' house, so that she can talk to my mom and sister, as she was sort of a third daughter in our household.

Overall, this task did good things for me.