Barbara

Barbara and I met at summer camp when we were, maybe, ten years old.

Our friendship was intense and important and consisted mainly of spending summers together and long phone conversations. We wrote letters and visited on school vacations. And all these years later it isn't that much different. We see each other about once every three years or so but when we do—we pick up exactly where we left off. It's a special relationship where you can (I think in our case, it feels as if we must) share all your intimate details with someone you haven't actually seen in years.

When we were small it was obvious that Barbara was going to be an artist—specifically a painter. So it wasn't any surprise when she began showing her work after college and forging her way in the New York City art world. She worked and lived the life of a fine artist for many years and three years ago made the decision to go back to school. She graduates this month with her Masters in Social Work. She did this, by the way, while supporting and raising her (now seven year old) son—by herself and finding time to paint.

She is still the intense woman I knew as a child and it comes across in everything she does. When she laughs, it's dramatic and when she cries it is too. She is generous and warm and charmingly insecure. She might be the best listener I know and she shares with abandon.

We've known each other through adolescent angst, school drama, family ordeals, sibling marriages and children, a few colleges, countless relationships, career changes and choices, our own marriages and children and divorces, all levels of life changes and struggles, and everything else. There's no doubt in my mind that our friendship will remain steadfast throughout whatever comes next, and with Barbara, I can hardly wait to see what that might be.