On New Year's Eve, the whole family runs out into the yard in our underwear to clang pots and pans and make whooping noises at the stroke of midnight. It's a tradition. This year, Eleigh came to the house for the holidays; she stayed in the basement and helped in the kitchen almost every night. Mom let her run the blender for the milk-shakes, and we all thought they were the best tasting milk-shakes of the year. Eleigh found a bowling ball named Janet in the basement and bowled it seven blocks down the lane while we made our annual din with the kitchenware. While I looked for my shirt under the bushes, I thought, "She is the best friend a girl could ever have." I believe it, too.

There is something very, very plain about Eleigh. It reminds me of the pots and pans and the Holidays. I'm not sure why. When Eleigh comes over, we all laugh at the way she talks, at her silly words and sayings. One or two of her expressions make me laugh, but a hundred of them start to move me around, like the phrases she uses are talking among themselves, celebrating a reunion, nudging up against me in line for a milk-shake.

She is like the pots and pans. Eleigh is like New Year's Eve. She is that noise, that funny whooping. Eleigh is my family on the front yard at midnight in our underwear. There is something so plain, so odd and old and ordinary, something so nice standing here.