Her name is Erica. She is really great.
I met Erica four years ago at cross-country practice. Coincidentally, that very same practice, she twisted her knee, dislocated it, and tore a few ligaments around it. Needless to say, I didn’t see much more of her that season. But next season rolled around and she graciously returned to the same patch of grass that turned her knee inside out.
The first practice of that season, Erica rode her bike. Just having gotten my license a few months before and obsessed with driving other people, I offered to drive her to and from practice every morning.
And so began a two-year stint of some pretty sweet Meg-Ebodes talks in my car.
Fast forward another year, and these talks moved from early summer mornings to late Wednesday nights. We talked about lot in those times: cross, boys, school, life in general. But the…
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