If we are lucky or blessed in this life, we manage to find people with whom we can be ourselves. We find that rare occurrence with a person who sees us, hears us, knows us and still sticks around. She can be someone who sits quietly across a table and lets us silently work at controlling our tears, fighting against the pain we had thought controlled. She could ask about the tears, but she knows that it is not why we have tears but why we wish to fight against them. He can be that companion who may know you are truly bonkers, misguided or paranoid, but who will defend you without hesitation. In private he may try to smack some sense into you, but in public he has your back. It can be that person who sees behind the curtain and is not awestruck by the all-powerful wizard. In fact, they much prefer the short dude that had to stand on the step stool to operate the machinery. He never asks what the hell you were thinking. There is no judging, no criticism, no jealousy, no competition. It is a perfect bubble of acceptance. And this friend can be the simplest discovery that might have been overlooked if not for a chime of commonality. She likes the same author or music or knows the same obscure poetry. He loves or hates the same microbrew and can discuss the nuances of Belgium ale and sour beer. He shares the same childhood sports memory. In that parallel existence is an instant companion and we naturally unfold and feel at home. That is the truest of friends. A friend feels like home.