My friend Dorothy is an artist. She's forty years older than me. I met her when I was six. I was a feisty Unitarian Universalist singing child, she was a pros·e·ly·tiz·ing Christian Scientist sculptor and painter. It was love at first sight. She would often spend long afternoons with me, cooking, gardening, baking, and creating things in her studio. We argued theology for *hours*.

A year ago, she moved to Dresden, Mass. I reacted with shock; she had always been local. For the last three years, she'd been my neighbor- only a block and a half away. Then she was gone. Boom.

She left me her portfolio; now my house is hung with her artwork. Her beautiful, beautiful artwork. The other day, I wrote her a letter. I wrote it simply, and briefly, but with sincerest love. She and I conflict on many levels, but resoundingly empathize and care for each other on others. I wrote it on a white sheet of printer paper in bronze glitter pen. I described how I was doing and the well-being of my mother, sweetheart, father, stepfather, and siblings. I signed it with affection. I mailed it.

I haven't heard back. I miss her.