Can it really have been seventeen years ago that we were having lunch at Insomnia every day when we both worked downtown? Is it possible that we survived on 16 oz. cups of coffee for lunch every day?
I like to think that if we had been told that seventeen years later, we would still be friends, neither of us would have behaved any differently. You still would have shared your finely crafted poems with me, and I still would have given you delicate drawings of dead birds, which is why, I suppose, we are still dear friends.
I rarely see you anymore, certainly not hanging out at the same café every day, but when we do see each other we always laugh together as if it's been mere days. When we find a rare moment to meet, I am always touched by your thoughtful gifts and gestures of kindness. You always manage to give me something that I'm never sure how I lived without in the first place. Samples from Penhaligon's of London, one of the world's oldest perfumers; a different scent to delight my senses every day of the week! And Dave Hickey's The Invisible Dragon, Essays on Beauty. You've always known how to renew my passion for art, and provoke me to find new ways of defining beauty.
Thank you for these lovely gifts, but thank you more for your rich and lively friendship.
Love,
Rita
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