Anything at all.

We'd sit shoulder-to-shoulder, knees to chin, waiting for my father to call out the men we would marry.

"That one?"

"Which one?" Maureen would ask.

"The one with the 'Urkel for President' t-shirt and gimp leg." I'd smile and nod, approving the choice while Maureen gazed wistfully into a future filled with "Did I do thats?" and hand-crafted canes.

These were just games though. We didn't marry the long line of unaware men who walked around aimlessly with their families at Epcot in the late 90's. Surprising, since my father is such an incredible judge of character.

Alas, we married different men, living lives like two flowers blooming from the same stem. Our past, the root of what sustains us.

Through the years Maureen and I have been called to walk in different ways. She's brilliant and has a face full of joy, and when I think of her, I often compare people I meet to her because in eighth grade, I had an entire room of new students I could have sat next to in religion class. But I chose her, and I often try to dissect the "why" behind that choice.

Maureen is emotionally intelligent, a quality that is often found lacking in our socially thirsty world.

Because of this, she's done well in the medical field and has a solid marriage and is raising a beautiful son. She's the other side of the coin in my mind when I'm putting away my organic tofu deep in the recesses of my refrigerator.

"I wonder what Maureen is doing right now?"

I have a flare for dependency. I sometimes wonder if I didn't hone this skill with Maureen who's always been a gentle and patient friend to me. I'm quite contrary, and despondent, and gaze often too hard into my navel that I'm afraid I might trip and drown. But she's always looked inside out, and what a kind face to see when you're turning back inside yourself.

Maureen's broken up with boyfriends for me. She listened to all of the drama with my high school boyfriend and didn't even throw me an "I told you so" party the day I realized this relationship wasn't the best fit. She's watched me dance at a warehouse party in Brooklyn, buzzed out of my mind and laughed good naturedly when I became best friends with her toilet that night.

Again, I flip through the people I know, how I love them like pieces of art I've displayed on the sill of my window. But Maureen is like knowing the artist herself, the ticking inside her head. That question in the back of my throat. "You're so good at what you do. So why me?"

I can't answer that for Maureen. I have my good days. Like that time I stopped a car from running over her cocker spaniel. Granted the car was twenty feet away, but I really feel Goldie and I accomplished something that day. I can be funny. I can be patient and gentle (sometimes) despite myself. But maybe it's because I've always understood Maureen's heart at a level it can be dangerous, like standing too long at the mouth of a furnace, closing your eyes to the way that feels.

Sometimes, things hurt but in a different way. We're older and people seem meaner than they used to. They aren't gentle and patient like Maureen, or even halfway patient and gentle like I am. They don't see the world with child-like eyes, waiting for their father to tell them what lies ahead.

Sometimes, I don't think they see anything at all.