Vicki

by Elaine Edwards

“Wear a red carnation in your buttonhole,” suggests my husband.
“And carry a copy of the Times,” sniggers my son.
“Nonsense,” I say, “of course we’ll know each other.”

But now, sitting in the Arrivals Hall,
I’m not so sure.
It’s been thirty-five years and how entrenched is
a mischievous smile; a petite figure; dark curly hair?
The ability to draw, a quirky sense of humour,
flat feet and a propensity to believe men’s bullshit
can’t be seen at a glance.

Then a small figure in turquoise- rimmed glasses rushes forward,
grins, and holds out her arms.
As I move towards her embrace,
I remember that wide smile welcoming me to our grade one classroom
and marvel that I could ever have thought I’d forgotten
my first best friend.

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