Ellen Corry

A love letter to my female friends, 

Your songs land in my inbox at the precise moment I need them. You run your fingers through my hair with the care of a mother and let me lay in your bed when I get lonely. Voraciously, you devour my worries and rock me back to reality. There is peace in the way we love each other, freewheeling and pulsating with warmth, like sitting under the heater at a restaurant. Many times, you have pointed out when a shirt brings out the green in my eyes or when my skin decides to clear up. You have straightened the curls at the back of my head, blended the bronzer I leave on my chin, and even waxed my mustache. 

 I think summer camp was the first time I discovered the peculiar way in which we adore one another. An older girl sat with me in the communal showers, clad in egregious one-piece swimsuits, and taught me how to shave my legs. Every female friendship I have had has been some version of us teaching each other how to shave our legs. At least every true one.  I have seen many of you pee yourselves from laughter, most of you cry over shitty boys, and all of you worry about things you cannot control.  

We talk about the powerful women we want to be. Powerful women who buy chocolate when we’ve had a bad day and can’t parallel park worth a damn and always need to do laundry. All this to say, thank you for the little things I will always remember and the giant things I manage to forget. Thank you for always texting back, entertaining my idiotic musings about the world. Thank you for sending me TikToks of celebrity crushes and quotes from my favorite writers.  I see how you pour hours into the things you care about, balance the countless to-dos, and somehow remember to ask about my day. An inherent propensity for kindness. My cup runneth over.  

I could sign this letter off with a lot of nicknames because many of you have been sweet enough to give me them. I don’t have sisters, but those monickers always make me feel like I do. But you have all occupied roles more demanding than “sister”. For me. For others. I expect to be a bridesmaid many times over (I’m a hoot at weddings). 

Love, 

Ellen