It happens all the time, this crazy love of mine…
…wraps around my heart, refusing to unwind:
Simone and I have been friends since we were about 10 years old. I'm not sure how it started, logistically speaking, but we were neighborhood kids. She lived two streets away, which I predict prolonged our union by about five years. It seems you have to be at least ten before your world grows beyond your immediate block. It may have been Erika that introduced us; maybe Adrienne and Erika—but either way—Simone and I always had something special; a language we spoke that was ours alone. We were always tirelessly trying to perfect the art of being as cool as humanly possible--and sometimes that caused us to fight. And we had some blow outs. But we always made up. Simone and I always made up.
These days we don’t fight. We have earned this sweet spot. And it has been worth every single bad break and misunderstanding. This is friendship gold. And you can’t get here without putting in the time and staying the course. This kind of thing is not a rite of passage—it’s an earned mosaic that not everyone will have; only the brave ones with the courage to continue and, when the truth calls for it, admit they’re wrong, will have a thing like this.
When I opened my hotel door at Farmers Daughter Hotel in LA (I highly recommend this spot) and saw Simone, I felt 12 years old again. I always feel somewhere between 12 and 16 years old when I am with Simone. Not because I feel especially immature—but because my heart feels courageous and youthful and unfettered by any of the shit storms that have hardened it a little as life has happened. Simone’s presence melts that away, and I have the eyes of Rusty James from S.E. Hinton's Rumblefish. She can remember vivid details of the past because she has a shockingly sharp memory. And I rely heavily on her to tell me about things from back there because my memory is spotty. I have some crystal clear Polaroid's in the archives that I can access and scan if I want to—some diamonds for sure--but there is not much in the way of entire events. Simone has all that, and she can jog my memory as if she’s been trained to do it. I used to get upset about the blank spots—but I think God does what’s best for us.
It always seems unfathomable how time has stood still when I see her. Whenever I'm with her, I tell her how young she looks. I don’t think she believes me. I think she hears that platitude kind of sentiment you say to someone in their 40’s that you’ve known your whole life—that “Oh my God, you haven’t aged” kind of thing. But to me, Simone legitimately still looks 20. Maybe when you've gone through your formidable years side by side it’s the face that prevails. And maybe when you’ve looked up to that person and they have shown you the kind of love that involves giving you their coveted Matt Dillon poster because they knew how bad you wanted it, or have written songs with you and given you the courage to sing them on a stage because they knew it was a dream of yours, or took the risk to open their arms wide to hug you when you were charging towards them in rage--maybe when you have that kind of history—maybe that face is just always the face of youth. Or maybe the youth and beauty in the face comes from the spirit that shines through it.
The thing I remember most vividly about my last visit with Simone in LA, was when we were in the pool at the Palomar and she pushed off the bottom into a dolphin-like back flip; our signature childhood move. I knew when she did it I had one of those priceless Polaroid's in my mind that I would be able to access forever. And I believe this image of Simone, and others like it compiled over time, will be the things that will continually strengthen my character. These things make me brave. This kind of love gives me the courage to continue. And, oh man, the laughter . . . so much laughing . . . all the time with the laughing.
What a gift to have a friend where there is no such thing as linear time. And how remarkable it is that we have stuck by each for well over 30 years, and that at every sad time when it was hard to breath—like when my dad died, or that God-dang wedding disaster -- she was there somehow. And she has always told me the same thing in the toughest times -- she says, “Stefanie your spirit is bigger than this and your heart is stronger.” Simone will walk right into the dark and bring the hope right there to you. That is friendship gold. And she is a friendship warrior.
Some days you just need to sit with someone who understands about how you went to that weird alternative high school because you just couldn’t stay awake in class or stay at school, and how much you truly loved that boy in Colorado and how bad it hurt when he left us, and how it felt to pretend I was her when she was too shy to call the boy she loved, and what it’s like to have the cops chase you away from another perfect night at Parkwood Elementary, and how much we love our parents, and all the times we fell and got up—just all of it . . . every bit of your life is understood. And you don’t even have to say a word. Sometimes you get on a plane and you fly to a person like that. And you just sit with them. And you are braver for it.
When Johnny told Ponyboy to stay gold we knew he was talking to us.
Thank you, Stefanie, for your beautiful words, your love, your light, your soul and for being here for me -- through it all. I love you, Simone
Keep writing. It saves lives.