When I think of her, I hear little girl laughter, hers and mine. I see the darkness of corners where we hide together from our moms because we don’t want to be parted. I see the yellow Belle dress, its gauzy layers twirling with her as she leaps across the room. I taste buttery cornbread—the last meal I shared with her.

My first inclination is to tell you that that when I got the call telling me my childhood friend had died, “time stopped,” or “I felt great pain,” or “I felt empty.”