The back of my hand brushed the ivory cresses of her cheek, feather-like, brushing away her tear. Come closer she whispered. I embraced her fragile frame, "you are my best friend" her voice wrapped in weakness spoke to me. I couldn't imagine it, me? I had known her for such a short time.
She lived in room 37, the revolving door of the home. How many crossed her threshold each and every day? A more loved woman I have never known. She had been collecting friends for 96 years. I was astounded! Her best friend! She thought that much of me? I couldn't grasp it. It was beyond me. She was gone so fast! The days that she and I were best friends were too brief.
I finally understood . . . everyone who had touched her life became her best friend. It was as real a friendship as the blue of sky.
There is a cloud of witnesses and Flossie is there among the greats, cheering us onward, those she so gracefully left behind. We will see her again . . . my best friend.