It’s not often I get to write about myself, but in R-Home magazine’s Last Word column, I had the chance to tell the story of how I’ve been following my best friend from city to city.
It’s been more than 15 years since I lived in my childhood home in a small Virginia town at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I can still picture the route to Kamala’s house.
Take a left out of my driveway, and another left onto the main road. Drive a few miles and turn right onto Independence Boulevard. Go to the end, take a left, go under the bridge, take the next right, and I’m there.
It’s a route I’ve traveled countless times in the past 30-plus years.
Kamala loves to tell the story of how we met in a bathtub at the public library when we were both 3 years old. Filled with cushions and soft toys, the white claw-foot tub had been converted into a reading nook. That’s where we ended up next to each other during story time one summer day, our moms probably nearby chasing our younger brothers.