I have a picture of my best friend sister on my desk.

And it reminds me of the hours and hours that we spent on the subway crying and snotting and spitting. 4 hours everyday for 2 years together, what an intense time together, nobody can understand that. Waking early and leaving before dawn, to go under ground and coming up much after the sun was already risen. There is a feeling in my heart of a missing when I think about the view of the sunrise on the Brooklyn Bridge and the time clock on the tower reminding me that we just might be late. The many steps at 4th avenue exit from the IND to the BMT trains and my sister crying that we shouldn't have to do this. I tried every joke to get her to laugh a little in those days. I said, Ju, look at that cute guy over there can you wink at him? No, because your face is retarded:) in jest of course. We laughed because she could only wink one eye. Spelling drills and math drills before and after school, when there was a test were our times of bonding. She knows that nobody knows the me that she knows and nobody knows the her that I know. The couple of girls that spent most of their teen years under ground. We are still crying that we are not at Fontbonne and missing the Verrazano Bridge as a personal friend of ours, maybe she's not but I am. What a transformation happened to her when she decided to become Junior President. She became a pleasant person to take the train with. She had a purpose for her trauma, daily. She made the most of it, too. What price we paid for getting to know one another so deeply. What a price we paid for getting to know the subway so well. What a price we paid for taking the road less travelled. I can't say that it was worth it in anyway except in the way of knowing Julia.