An anniversary of friendship

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

I wish I could remember more about that Christmas Eve. I can recreate the room: We are at Caryn's parents' house, at their traditional after-church Christmas party, renowned for its homemade egg-nog. I can picture the punch bowl in the middle of the table, hear the clinking of glass and the laughter of the crowd, smell assorted colognes and the sweet scent of pine.

I can see Caryn's face, a child's face, no make-up, not even lipstick, freckles dotting her nose, a grin in her eyes. I can even make out what she's wearing: a plaid jumper, a white blouse. She is 19. She is a child.

John is beside her, towering over her, smiling. They are standing side by side, touching at the hips as if a magnet draws them.

A magnet does. They are newlyweds. This is their first Christmas Eve married. I am getting married in weeks and their happiness is a preview of mine.

They are at my wedding, but I don't remember them. I was at theirs, but they don't remember me. Brides and grooms see only each other.

It is later that we become close friends. After their daughter Michele is born. After my son Rob is born. Caryn and I seek each other out at church functions to talk about babies. Our husbands talk about work. We four are the same age, so we gravitate to one another.

When Caryn has Kerry, I visit her at the hospital. Not long afterward she phones and invites us to her house. My husband and I sit in the living room, eat potato chips, drink wine and talk. Our friendship is cemented that night: my husband's and John's, mine and Caryn's.

My daughter Lauren is born. Now we have four children between us. While the youngest sleep and the oldest are playing, Caryn teaches me how to make drapes, to knit, to crochet. Together we make bean bags, Halloween costumes, Christmas stockings, homemade ice cream. In the summer, Caryn teaches me to do a front flip into the pool. In the winter she tries to teach me to ice skate.

I must have taught Caryn something, too, but I don't know what. Looking back, I see her showing me how to hold a tennis racquet; how to catch a fly ball; how to hold a bat, how to swing; how to grow tomatoes; how to match plaids; how to cross-stitch.

Our families grow up together. Traditions begin. Every Christmas Eve we meet at church, then stop at Caryn's mother's on the way home. Every Easter Sunday, after church, we eat breakfast together. Every birthday, every anniversary, every holiday we spend some time together. In the summer Caryn and I take the kids to the Cape for a few days. I make her sit through horror movies. She makes me play cards. Every Halloween my kids trick or treat in Caryn and John's neighborhood.

Sarah is born. My husband and I are her godparents. Julie is born, John and Caryn are hers.

Time accelerates. Years careen by. Our kids grow older. We grow older. We have separate jobs. We live in separate towns. We don't go to the same church anymore. Our kids attend different schools, are involved in different activities. We are increasingly busy. We have separate lives.

And yet, our lives remain entwined.

John and I take the kids to flea markets. John and my husband golf. Caryn teaches my youngest how to ice skate and how to knit. We play racquetball together. When anything breaks, John fixes it. When any one of us breaks, the others are always there.

Births, deaths, successes, disappointments, celebrations, calamities, recitals, rejections, proms, plays, graduations, sicknesses - we share them all.

Some things change. We stop going to Caryn's mother's on Christmas Eve. We meet at my house instead. We don't vacation on the Cape.

But the way we feel doesn't change.

For better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. These are the vows Caryn and John took 25 years ago today, the vows I witnessed, anticipating my own.

I didn't anticipate the breadth of these vows. Among the four of us, Caryn and John and my husband and me, and among our children, there have never been any spoken promises. For friendship is a silent love. No anniversary marks its beginning; no festivities honor its strength.

Yet the pledge is the same: Trust me. I will be there for you. That's what a bride and groom say.

Trust me. I won't ever let you down. That's what a good friend says, too, only in actions not words.