Her Name Was Debbie Poem by Edith Niemeyer

Her Name Was Debbie

Her name was Debbie—
but a name alone
could never tell
what she was to me.

She was laughter
that needed no reason,
conversation that wandered
until hours disappeared,
and silence comfortable enough
that neither of us
had to fill it.

She was my friend.

No—

my best friend.

One of those rare souls
life places upon your pathway
without explaining
how precious they will become.

We thought we had tomorrow.
Then another tomorrow.
And surely another after that.

Funny, isn't it—

how freely we spend time
when we believe
our pockets are full of it.

Now her photograph
rests quietly upon stone.

But when I look at her,
I do not see stone.

I see Debbie.

I see moments
no camera ever captured.

I hear words
no photograph can repeat.

I remember laughter
that death itself
cannot make unheard.

For friendship leaves
its own kind of footprints—

some beside us
for only a little while,

some across an entire lifetime,

and a precious few
walk so deeply into the heart
that when their footsteps cease,

their presence does not.

So I will not measure
our friendship
by where it ended.

I will measure it
by everything
between hello
and goodbye.

And should memory someday
open yesterday's door,

I know exactly
who I will find there—

that familiar face,
that familiar smile,

my friend,

my best friend,

Debbie.