That’s what my friend, Karen, and I used to say when we were little to my mom as she fixed us lunch.
“I want the bigger half!”
My mom tried to explain that that’s not how “half” works, but we didn’t care. We were having fun being together and just wanted something to say about those PB&Js she was making.
By now, after 50 years of friendship with Karen, I’m finding out that I did indeed get the bigger half.
I got a friend who picks up her phone day or night, no matter how many years it’s been since we talked last. Who, at 2 am, will take in my son, whom she’s never met, for a night when his flight is canceled and he doesn’t know a soul around.
I got a friend who, when I complain that my bike finally kicked the dust, creates a new Frankenbike for me out of two others she happens to have in her garage, and then takes my old one.
A friend whose dog adopts me during our sleepover.
A friend who sings every song I can play, who takes turns harmonizing with me, who belts it all out for the sheer joy of sharing something so intimate as singing together.
A friend who drives two hours each day I’m around so I can take a bath at her house.
A friend who talks with me about what she hasn’t talked about with other friends ever and who listens to me talk about what I haven’t talked about ever.
A friend who insists she got the bigger half when it comes to our friendship. Maybe that’s the nature of bigger halves. You both feel happy with what you’ve got.