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Happy Birthday, Lindsey.

The only thing I have today is Happy birthday, Lindsey. 

Lindsey is my best friend. She loved cats. She was a teacher. She spoke german. She liked coffee and fruit and cheese. She didn't have to blow dry her hair for it to be perfect and shiny. She was warm and joyful and one of the few people I loved to hug. She was kind to everyone she met. She made friends wherever she went. She made everyone feel important.

I would have enjoyed being quarantined with her. We would have read books next to each other and then talked about them. We would have made and consumed eggless cookie dough, gone on walks, and planted a garden on the balcony. We would've bedazzled some face masks or sewn our own. She would've insisted we help any elderly neighbors. She would cook amazing things, and I would eat them. There would be dancing and impromptu audience-less karaoke. We'd go to bed at a reasonable hour because we are old now. There would be a cat involved.

I wonder if she would still make that face she made . . . eyes slightly droopy and a long puckered mouth, tapping my shoulder and getting too close to my face. This was her unsubtle hint that I was being ridiculous. She took care of people, and so she would think about how her actions affected her community. I can see her making that face and saying, 
"Milla. Stay. The F--. Inside."
People who didn't know her really missed out on something special. She's on my mind every day, and now she is on yours, too. 



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