It’s been years since my childhood neighbor, Theresa moved to Florida. But to me, it feels like yesterday.

When I was maybe 12 years old, my sister and I played Barbies a lot. Playing Barbies meant setting up the entire basement as our universe, complete with a Barbie hot tub (Tupperware filled with warm water).

It was late summer or early fall and we were lost in our own world as someone knocked on the door.

From upstairs we heard, “Giiiiirls!” , the classic call to come up. 

To my surprise, my mom was still at the door talking to a woman with dark hair with streaks of silvery gray. She may not have had silvery streaks when I was 12, but that’s how I always imagine her.

She was holding some sort of baked good and introduced herself as Theresa. We told her our names as well.

“Hello, girls. We just moved in next door.”

Until this point, I hadn’t noticed a small pair of sneakers hiding behind Theresa’s clogs. 

“This is Jenna.”

Theresa turned to nudge the girl who belonged to the small sneakers towards the door frame.

Jenna had frizzy brown hair and big eyes. She looked like she picked out her outfit with a blindfold, a school spirit t-shirt under a bright green tank top dress.

Jenna looked up at us shyly and giggled (which we learned was Jenna’s default, giggling). “Hi.”

We each grabbed her arms, locking her between us.

“Come on, you have to see the Barbie Land we have set-up in the basement! You can be the Mom,” I said excitedly.

Jenna said nothing and smiled as we dragged her down the stairs into our Barbie wonderland. 

I don’t think Theresa knew what she had gotten herself into. One day, introducing herself as the new neighbor and the next summer, Jillian and I were at her house daily, scheming with Jenna on the best way to get her mom to say yes to a sleepover.

They chose a mustard yellow paint for the house with dark green shutters that made the people on Cherry St. shudder. Now, I can’t imagine it being another color. It’s white and gray now, but it’s mustard in my mind.

When they painted their house, I thought, they don’t care when anyone else thinks. In a good way. Theresa walked the beat of her own drum, different from other adults I knew.

She wore flowy clothing and was never afraid to combine patterns. She ate coffee flavored yogurt but drank lots of tea. She read the Bible daily on her screened-in porch. She kept her nails long and had a habit of running her fingers through her hair while she talked.

As one year turned into 10, we weren’t just neighbors anymore, we were friends, family.

When I found out they were moving, I was in short, devastated. The family that had been a comfort and support was moving hundreds of miles away. And strangers were moving into their home.

They’ve been in Florida the past few years, and I still see Theresa when she makes visits to Ohio. But even in friendship, long distance relationships can be hard. Long texts that never seemed to say enough and the bittersweet nostalgia that comes with reconnecting.

Just a few months ago, I asked Theresa if she wanted to be pen pals.

And though the United States Postal System really does live up to the name “snail mail”, I’ve enjoyed writing out my experiences for Theresa to read. Asking questions about her life. Receiving seven pages of her spaced out loopy penmanship on special paper she bought for our letters. (I need to step up my stationary game.)

I like to decorate the envelope. This month, I pasted a red heart to the front and wrote the address on it. And if you can tell from the cover image, I forgot to put a stamp on it…oops. Still waiting for it to come back so I can give it another try.

Letter writing is like journaling in a way, but instead of the audience being “Dear Diary”, you are actually addressing a real person. It’s intentional. You can’t easily go back and delete that last sentence unless you want to start a new page. You take the time to find the words.

Nothing is quite the same as it was, but we’ve found ways to connect over years of shared memories. Who knows if we’ll be pen pals forever, but letters or not, we’ll always be family.