I’ve been blessed with several close friendships, though some of these cherished companions have since departed. Beverly, one of my dearest friends, passed away four years ago. Although she was 14 years my senior, she was my unwavering support—what today’s youth might call a “BFF” or “ride or die.”
Bev, as I affectionately called her, and I met in 1978 through Parents Without Partners, a support group. We immediately shared an extraordinary connection and unbreakable bond.
Sometimes we would spend hours on the phone, often chatting late into the evening, knowing that we both had to go to work the following day. Our friendship, spanning decades, saw us transition from young adults with young children to grandmothers, yet we maintained the enthusiasm of teenagers in our conversations.
As divorced women, we found solace in sharing and discussing various aspects of our lives. We regaled each other with stories of clubbing, house parties, and concerts. Our shared love for R&B music was a frequent topic and we supported each other through the trials of raising children as single parents.
Above all, our conversations often revolved around our romantic pursuits, and we shared the ups and downs of our dating lives. Bev gave me some of the best advice I ever received. Our friendship was a testament to the power of connection, transcending time, and life’s many changes.
Growing up, my life was markedly different from Bev’s. While I experienced a relatively sheltered upbringing, Bev’s childhood was fraught with challenges. Tragedy struck early when her mother died while she was a young girl, and her father’s absence led to the separation of Bev and her siblings into various foster homes.
Bev often confided in me about the mistreatment she endured in her last foster placement. Even though she lived in Washington, DC, as a black child in a white household during the Jim Crow era, she faced significant hardships. She frequently reminded me, “They were only interested in the monthly stipend, not my well-being.” The vivid horror stories she shared still linger in my memory. Eventually, unable to endure the situation any longer, Bev ran away.
That decision forced Bev to become self-reliant at a young age, and she developed an impressive repertoire of street smarts. We often joked that while she had attended conventional schools, her real education came from the School of Hard Knocks, culminating in a degree from TLU (Tough Luck University.)
Bev and I shared a connection that some might describe as serendipitous. I, however, believe our paths crossing was an act of divine intervention; her presence became a lifeline for me. Our bond was extraordinary, often manifesting in uncontrollable bouts of laughter that left us gasping for air, tears streaming down our faces. Yet, our relationship ran deeper than mere mirth; we stood by each other through life’s storms, offering unwavering support during our darkest hours.
When Bev’s only son, twenty-something-year-old Kenneth, was tragically shot and killed in the 1980s, I immediately rushed across town to be by her side. Similarly, in the spring of 2001, when I unexpectedly lost a loving boyfriend following a surgical procedure, Bev was there to comfort me. Our friendship was characterized by these and other shared experiences of laughter and tears, spanning many years.
Beverly is always on my mind, but her memory becomes especially poignant twice a year, on her birthday, February 2nd, and at Christmastime. We often shared laughs about her unique birthday. I’d tease her, saying, “Imagine sharing your birthday with a groundhog predicting the weather. And if luck isn’t on your side, you might find yourself in a time loop, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.” She’d chuckle and reply, “Sometimes, it does feel like I’m living the same day repeatedly.”
Bev, cherished Christmas with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child. She always gushed over what she said were the unique Christmas Cards I sent her. During the holidays, our phone calls were frequently accompanied by the melodious strains of yuletide classics playing softly in the background. We shared a fondness for CD compilations like “Soul Christmas” by various artists and our absolute favorite, “The Temptations Sing Christmas.”
This past week’s televised broadcast of a special, “A Motown Christmas,” stirred up nostalgic memories, transporting me back to times shared with Bev.
My friend’s passing left an indelible mark on my heart, as is often the case when we lose those closest to us. However, her memory remains a constant presence, a bittersweet reminder of the guidance and the joy she brought into my life. I yearn for our shared laughter, our nostalgic “Remember when…” conversations, and her uncanny ability to brighten even my darkest days with her encouraging words.
In honor of Bev, I’ll paraphrase a profound saying that resonates deeply with me: Some individuals enter our lives with a specific purpose—be it to impart a crucial lesson or to bestow upon us the blessing of joy and positive experiences. They depart once their mission is accomplished, leaving us forever changed by their presence.
Bev is gone but will never be forgotten. “Merry Heavenly Christmas, Bev.”
And to all my blog readers, thank you for reading me throughout the years. I love you. “Merry Christmas, and may your New Year be filled with blessings.”
