When women wear red

No matter at what age – 16, 18, 21 or 24 – you wouldn’t have caught me wearing red on Valentine’s. It was flamboyant, garish, and tacky.

"But why not?" asked a lovesick friend.

"It’s like wearing your heart on your sleeves and that’s the last thing you’d want to flaunt," I replied.

Oh, oh. Back then, we kept our feelings to ourselves.

When the relationship prospered and reached dazzling heights, I danced blissfully, my feet off the ground. When it turned sour, I crash-landed, except my body had no physical evidence of injury. My heart, however, was splintered into tiny pieces. Nothing lived, nothing moved after that.

Downcast and empty, I opened the door, and there stood a friend. Without saying a word, she hugged me. She didn’t have to ask. She knew what went wrong. Her mere presence told me that she was there to break my pain into two pieces. The smaller hurt was mine, the bigger one was hers.

Wait a second. That didn’t make sense.

She had it all figured out. "You were obviously the affected one in this failed relationship. For that, you get the smaller half, so the better and quicker for you to dump and get over him. I get the bigger piece because, hey! he was the bigger fool, and a fool is easy to forget. So there…" she giggled.

I laughed and immediately, I felt better. Her reasoning may have been off tangent but the generosity of her spirit led me to believe that beyond the tears, my heart can rise again.

A few months after, I was breathing normally. The phone rang off the wall and my heart didn’t skip a beat. I played those "somebody-done-somebody-wrong" songs and I snapped my fingers in chorus.

In time, I was ready for love again. Maryann was right: "Friendship exists to put a smile where love puts tears." Friends also hold your hand until you can walk tall, unaided.

To sum it up, I hang a cross-stitch, framed gift that quotes Muriel Rukeyser, "I hear the singing of the lives of women, the clear mystery, the offering and pride."

Crow’s-feet, laugh-lines, rickety-bones, failing-memory-and-platinum-blonde-years later, my friends are still here. Whenever we meet, politesse is swept under the carpet. We can scream, taunt and blaspheme, and no one would raise an objection. It’s like a town meeting where everyone shares equal billing, and the only fool is the mute, lifeless statue where birds had perched and left a big mess. I could leave the table and come back without my ears getting hot and itchy; they don’t talk behind my back.

There was no topic that cannot be discussed at length. Trivial, funny, risqué, stupid, raunchy, frightening, magnificent, spiritual, beautiful, kind or sweet. Bring them out. On most topics, we even share a common opinion. If we differ, we listen first and then disagree without putting a strain on our friendship. They are the sisters, the mother, the favorite aunt or the caring teacher outside my home and classroom. They are the well of joy, hope, love and laughter in my life. These friends of the heart also taught me that if you’ve experienced love – fleeting or here-to-stay – what better way of celebrating it is there than by flaunting it?

So now, I wear red.