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Barbarita was my best friend during the year my mom, dad, and I lived in New York. Her name was Barbara, but that was a daunting name for a three-year-old to carry, so I always think of her by her nickname: Barbarita. I don’t know by what name Barbarita thinks of me. If she thinks of me at all. She may have forgotten me. And yet, she was the first friend I ever had. A beloved friend I met in 1980 and whom I haven’t seen in four decades. Sometimes I wonder if I should try to find her. What would we gain from such a meeting? What would we lose? The legacy of one’s earliest friendships is precious, almost sacred—and Barbarita left quite a legacy.
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