Dear Lois,

I think about you all the time. I think about how when we first met, you were only 30 and I was 22. You were so mature, so statuesque. I don't think I was as mature as you when I finally reached 30. Back then, you were married with three young children not yet in high school. Forgive me for thinking you were so much older. I can hear you saying it now, "I've always had a very old soul."

I remember your hair, that beautiful fern of dreadlocks. I'm sorry I said it reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg. I'm sorry if I ever touched your hair. No one talked about it back then like they do now, but I know now that it was still frowned upon. As you know, I was young and didn't know anything.

You cut it once. You told me a black woman cuts her hair to get rid of bad energy. I thought about that the last time I saw you in person when your hair was all gone because of the chemo. You stayed quiet about it then too. I think back on so many things now that I learned from you, and you were silent through most of them. The best teachers are always the quiet ones.

I owe you an apology for leaving you that night. You remember what night I'm talking about, don't you? With a strange man. Without your purse. I didn't know your purse was still in my car until it was too late, and I had gone home and the sun was coming up. I knew when I brought it to you the next day that I shouldn't have left you there by yourself. You weren't mad. Just silent again. Lesson learned.

I held your purse and stayed with you at the clinic though. I sat in the lobby—the only man there—carrying the weight of judgment of all the other women sitting around me waiting their turn. I wanted to stand up and tell them it wasn't mine. I wanted to tell them I wasn't the one making you do this. I was just there for support. I was the driver. I was your friend. I was the one you chose to tell, the one you asked for help. You knew I wouldn't tell anyone. You knew I could stay silent.

Do you remember our trip to New Orleans? I still think about it. Never mind the food, the dancing, all the sightseeing we did. Sitting in the hotel room with you and watching the premiere of Sex in the City was one of the best memories. And sitting with you on the train while we read the same book. Just being with you, in silence, enjoying the things we both loved was enough to make the trip memorable.

Hard to believe all of that was over twenty years ago. It's so rare to have a friend all to yourself, even if just for a weekend, these days. I have so many warm memories with you in them.

And now we are miles and years apart. Your kids are grown. You have grandchildren. You beat cancer. I see the photos of you online and you're keeping your hair short these days. Every time I cut mine I remember what you told me. I miss your laughter, but I can still hear it inside my head. I don't need to hear it in person to know that you are alright. We will always be connected. In some way.

Neither of us was ever the quiet one back then, but when you were quiet I never had to wonder about what you were thinking. Your silence taught me everything.