For Jessica...

Before we ever met in person, we knew each other on paper: You were the woman book publisher from New York City; we were all big, scary women - remember? When we actually met in person, you were running late for orientation, whisking in breathless and freckled - both harried and carefree in perfect balance.

Truth be told - and now is the flippin' time for truth - I have always been intimidated by you, in the writing arena by your certainty with the red pen and your judicious disbursement of praise, and, in the broader perspective of things, by the ease and assurance with which you move between the big city and the back 40.

I've made a mistake all this time letting that intimidation turn to fear, which turned into keeping you at arm's length as a friend. As a type-A-Leo and wannabe-alpha-mama, I've made the mistake of feeling threatened by your power and strength - a power and strength that I am so grateful you have right at this moment - rather than feeling connected to those qualities. But you are a loyal and connecting kind of person, and you have kept me as close as I am comfortable; and for that, too, I am grateful.

It's stunning that it's taken this kind of shaking of the $hit for me to see that you deserve for me to be a better friend. But I know, and see here, that you are surrounded by the extraordinary friends you deserve; maybe it's why you forgive my shortcomings.

Kicking a toe in the dirt (would Kotlowitz get that?), I am trying to find just the words that will both bridge the gap and stoke the fire - it's a tall order of metaphors.

You will be OK.

All of the maudlin Oprah-talk aside, I'll ask all the Ladies in the house to put their hands in the air as I compare you to a sweater:

Jessica, if you were a sweater, you would be the textile wonder known as the Norwegian ski pullover, with fine, perfect stitches and a delicate motif belying a strong, warm, snow-resistant, waterproof, cancer-proof, form-meets-function jewel. You would be just the right thing on the ski slopes or by the fireplace or at the pub, or even, with the right black pencil skirt, at a swanky dinner party.

You will be OK.

You are OK.

I am sending bucketfuls of love.

Bobbie