Raspberry Comeuppance

Seven years ago I was hopping mischievously from one foot to the other, spitting raspberries at my roommate.


She’s deliciously fun to bother, and as the oldest of three I possess many refined methods of torturing another, whereas she, as an only child, has a very low tolerance for it.


I cackled like a super villain as she tried to talk to one of our friends on the phone when suddenly, I received my comeuppance. “She fell over,” she reported to him. I had made the transition from super villain to plain crazy person, and was then giggling like one, rolling around on the floor, clutching my leg.


Last night, when I leaned over and poked at her with some straw wrappers at Red Lobster, we looked at each other, remembering how I tottered around on crutches for the several weeks following that incident. In our minds, we were both back in that room, both laughing at my well-deserved pain, and she was exclaiming, “that’s what you get!”


Two weddings, four children, and most of a decade later, we hugged. And she declared, “I miss you!”