Stepping outside, the door shuts with a squeak behind me. It’s mid-morning and already the light is summer-warm on my skin, heating the concrete beneath my feet. I can smell the sun-warmed brick at my entryway as I drop the half-full Target bag behind a support pillar before crossing the driveway to my car.
There will be no extended good-byes today when my friend comes for the supplies I offered last night. No hellos or waves. Our boys will not chase each other around the house while our husbands talk.
No, due to coronavirus it’s a porch pickup and drop off. I offer yeast. She brings strawberries. And my boys will remain none the wiser when she comes and goes like a spirit at dawn.
When I get home from my curbside errand my husband hands me a clamshell of the brightest red berries I’ve ever seen. They smell like candy and taste like summer, bursting with flavor.
“I wish I could have handed her the bag with yeast, and talked over the strawberries while the boys played,” I say to my husband as we tuck the berries away in the fridge.
*****
The last time we saw each other was early March, two days before my son and I flew to spend a week with my husband. My husband began working out of state in November, and my son’s spring break would be the longest period we’d spend together since Christmas.
My house was full of excitement and chaos. Her son and mine are best friends, and serendipitously, she and I are best friends, too. Our parenting styles are similar. Our boys have similar interests. Our conversations together are constantly meandering like the little boy's walks from Family Circus, where we eventually find our way back on topic.
I don’t recall our conversation topic when both boys began screaming and sobbing from the playroom, but I remember the promise we made that a pandemic kept us from keeping as we separated, both boys crying the playdate was done.
“In ten days we’ll be together again to play. I promise,” I said to my son as he sobbed about wanting his friend to stay.
“Yes, boys, we will play again after their trip!” She agreed, her hand on the doorknob. Our good-byes can only be described as “midwestern.” We draw them out for as long as possible, always one hand on the door, one hand on a child, and repeatedly insist it’s time to go as we keep our conversation going.
Had we known it would be our last time with the boys turning a house into chaos, perhaps we wouldn’t have parted ways so quickly.
*****
We met my first year of being a stay-at-home mom, almost by happenstance. I believe something divine was at work when we started talking in the sand at the first playdate we attended together. Both in the same baby-wearing, breast-feeding, and gentle parenting groups, our friendship was meant to be. Her son was active like mine, and we both transplanted from out-of-state for a multitude of different reasons.
Small talk over playdates became deeper and more vulnerable until we found ourselves exchanging phone numbers at a mutual friend’s baby shower over fruit and the most delicious homemade chocolate cake I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying. Two days later we met for brunch, and after three hours, including one of trying to separate so our boys could nap, we realized we may have something.
Since then, she’s become my closest friend in Texas. My confidante. The one I call in an emergency and the one I text when I need solidarity or advice or both. Some days we communicate only in memes and others we hardly text at all, but there is something about when we are together that makes the day brighter, happier, and more fun.
*****
It took seven weeks from our last playdate for us to see each other in person again. A porch pick-up of mother’s day gifts turned into a socially distanced conversation in my front yard while my son picked “flowers” from the flower bed. This time I had handmade socks and she brought celery and a homemade crayon.
We stood more than six feet apart outside for over a half hour just talking, and it was the breath of fresh air I desperately needed. I just didn’t know how much until after she pulled out of my driveway and I couldn’t stop smiling.
“You got to see your co-worker!” my husband joked later while we were on the phone.
“More like my work wife,” I shot back.
He laughed as I told him about how uplifted I felt to see a friend. Weeks of only family and the Instacart driver’s wave kept my cup from emptying. Talking to a friend on my lawn on a humid morning filled it up in a way I didn’t know I needed.
That was almost three weeks ago, and I’m already planning for our next porch exchange. I don't know what it will be, but I know it holds more meaning than stuff. It’s caring for one another when we cannot spend time together and holding the other in the light. It’s more than a porch pickup: it’s being as together as we can while we are apart.
