The Bride from 611

I know, I know, another missed blog post last night.

But this smokin’ hot foxy lady was the reason, and I happen to think a pretty good reason, as a group of us stayed out into the wee hours of the morning celebrating her last weekend as a single girl.

One week from tomorrow, my little Gonzo will become a Smith. A Smith! It’s so strange. And exciting. And joyful. And an answer to many of her’s, and other’s deepest prayers.

The Bride-to-be and I moved into our first apartment together as college graduates in 2007 and lived together until the fall of 2010. We were first year teachers together. We were pink slipped together. We were ISP leaders together and Sandalites together and so many beautiful summers off together. We became adults together.

611 (our old apartment) has so many memories that fond, bittersweet, and poignant cannot even come close to being well-fitted adjectives. If our time together as roommates were a perfume, it would stop just short of pungent to be something greater than aromatic without being obnoxious. The kind of fragrance that stays with you, close to your skin, lingering, long after the initial moment of contact. The good kind of perfume, that kind you can smell best when you get within close proximity to someone. The kind that once smelled in a crowded room always reminds you specifically of a time, a person, a place.

It’s the scent of 611. It’s sand and ocean breeze, it’s snow and Christmas trees. It’s Halloween costumes and notebook paper, it’s textbooks and so many pizza boxes later. It’s the sisterhood that was formed in those years. It’s the smile that will spread across my face, and possibly the tears that will trickle down my cheeks as I watch this dear friend marry her love on a chill December evening.

Thank you, Sarah, Gonzo, boo, 611, for all our years together as single sisters. I can’t wait to line up behind you as you embrace your husband, and the rest of your story.

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