Usually, I await spring because there’ll be some relief, some hope, some optimism. This was the first year that spring arrived and that accompanying deep sigh and saying goodbye to the darkness of winter never came. The roses on my arbor bloomed, the honeysuckle is now out and I’m back to driving barefoot — but it’s merely pleasant, at best. My 15 year-old daughter told me the other day that I’m her best friend. I knew girls growing up whose mothers were their best friends. In my high school yearbook, people had under their photos “143 Mom and Dad!” 143 stands for “I love you.” I know what it feels like to love my daughter; I don’t know what it feels like to be loved by a mother or think of my mother as my best friend. I cannot relate to my daughter’s love and respect for me and I can’t internalize how much I mean to her. At this point in my life, she is the primary reason I’m still breathing. I just take it on faith that she would be terribly damaged if I were to take my own life.