Honestly, Sandie

The first time I met Carnelian, I butchered her name.

We were at church helping put together Easter stories. She had been asked to help write because she was good with words. I was taking pictures. Her name is one of those names that makes perfect sense once you hear it, but I saw it written down and confidently made a complete mess of it.

Great first impression.

She was older than me, another California girl, and I loved her fast. She had that San Diego thing: horses, nature, a little bit of “I could live off-grid and be just fine,” paired with a purse that had no interest in blending in anywhere.

She did not have kids, but she genuinely liked mine. She would invite my daughter and me to brunch, and we would sit there too long, have drinks, eat, laugh, and remember that moms are still allowed to be people with personalities.

We helped her move once, but mostly we were just in each other’s lives. The kind of friendship where you come over when something needs to be painted or fixed or lifted. Nothing huge. Just real-life stuff. The kind of stuff that makes you assume you will keep knowing each other.

She had a funny mix of loyalty and rebellion. She wanted to check in with leadership, make sure she was doing things right, and then occasionally decide she was doing whatever she wanted anyway. I got it. I have never been good at fully committing to being told what to do either.

When everything started falling apart for us, I called her. I told her what was happening because she mattered to me. I thought she was one of the people who would still know me after we were no longer standing in the same room every week.

She never followed up.

No fight. No blowup. No last weird conversation where somebody says something unforgivable. Just silence.

Three years of it.

I still have her number. I still wonder whether she moved back to San Diego. I picture her somewhere warm, near a horse, making a house look beautiful without trying too hard, still carrying a purse with enough sparkle to catch the light from across a parking lot.

Carnelian gets its color from iron oxide. Rust caught inside stone. A little weathering, a little heat, a whole lot of color.

That is where I leave her in my mind.

Not as the person who disappeared.

As the woman who brought California warmth into a place I was still learning how to call home. The one with the soft heart, the stubborn streak, the good eye, the good stories, and enough fire in her to carry both a map to the woods and a bag that would never survive the woods.

Carnelian does not lose its color because it has been through weather.

It keeps it.

I hope she has too.