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Jenny White
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Wind whipped through my hair as I raced home in panic. Why had they not let me in? The day had begun like any other Saturday. I had come to see my friend, Alvina Marcella Weise, so proud that I knew her full name. But, she was Ally to me. Before she moved I had only to step out my front door and walk two steps to be in her apartment. We really shared the same house. This gray-haired spinster kept me company while my mother worked. The years have faded much of my picture of her, the brown dress she often wore during the week, the white wool coat she wore as she stepped into her ride to church on Sunday. We often played solitaire, teacher and student. But, it's the meals I remember most: Cream of Wheat with the lumps still in, butter and sugar sandwiches on cookie cutter shaped white bread. She moved to the new high-rise just as soon as it was ready and so began a weekly ritual of peddling my mom's yellow bike with the big balloon tires to see her. We would chit chat about events of the week over cookie cutter sandwiches. Until that day. I got off the elevator to see policemen standing in the doorway. They would not let me in Ally's apartment and they would not explain why. I don't even remember if they said anything to me. Upon arriving home, my mom went to investigate. She returned with the dreadful news that my friend had died. No one took the role Ally played in my life. I became a latch-key child after that, spending many hours alone after school until my mother arrived after work. I occupied myself with music and dress-up. It's funny, then, that I would miss Ally now. I would like to sit and chit chat again about the events of our weeks, to learn more of her life. I'm thankful she had time for a little girl.
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Feb 11, 2011