When Katie came to dinner

I have this friend whose name is Katie.

Last night, after about an eight-month interval, she came to my house for dinner.

It's not that we hadn't seen each other since then. We'd met at restaurants, even at my ex-husband's house while I was living there when he was in the hospital.

But not here -- in this reshaped, evolving space, full of light and promise.

At any rate, I had a great evening. We talked, non-stop, about family, friends, faith and romance.

We laughed. We debated. We shared literary dreams and career visions.

I hope that she had a good time, too.

The last time she was here, for reasons that had nothing to do with her personally, was a nightmare -- the beginning of a season of brokenness that left a mark on me that I haven't completely shaken.

That evening, my hospitality was abused by someone I trusted to be, if nothing else, compassionate. Spoiled I may be, but I'm not used to cruelty.

Last night, that same informality, amid the still unpacked boxes and pictures yet unhung, was appreciated.

In her return, alone, many of those wounds were healed. Though I know I'll regress now and then, I'm determined to throw off the shackles of past hurts And I'm grateful to Katie -- for fighting for our friendship when, overwrought and saddened, I sought to run away.

Thank you for your loyalty. Thank you for your bracing commonsense. And thank you for your encouragement to look forward, and not behind me.

With your courage and optimism, you show me the way.