7:30 a.m.

The phone is supposed to ring at 7:30 a.m. It's supposed to be my friend, Patsy. We're supposed to be discussing our day and whatever bad outfit or bad hairdo is on the television.

Several years have passed since her unfair and untimely death. I still expect the phone call and then reality settles over me. Time is supposed to heal all wounds but to quote Dr. Phil, "Time heals nothing." Every once in a while, her husband calls at 7:30 a.m. When I answer the phone, he says, "It's still not Patsy."

I understand that we're all faced with the same fate. Time is precious and no one knows his or her own timeline. I don't understand why I had to lose this friend and other people seem to live forever. Willard Scott did his birthday gig on the Today Show recently and highlighted some woman who was celebrating her 102nd birthday. She quit smoking when she was 97-years old.

Patsy was a pipsqueak in stature and a giant in personality. She would rally her troops (girlfriends) and get us to do anything. She organized trips and sleepovers. She guilted us into a multitude of volunteer activities. She could rearrange the furniture in your house (and often did) while you took a bathroom break. She made me laugh, even in the most bizarre situations. Don't let anyone tell you that peer pressure ends in high school or college. She took peer pressure to a new level.

She was gifted at crafts; I am not. I cannot count the number of things I've painted because she told me to do so. Once we had a few drinks and cut another one of our girlfriend's hair. (Pats on one side -- me on the other.) She swears it was a great haircut.

The girlfriends were her pallbearers, an idea I plan to steal. Life moves on and somehow we pick ourselves up and carry on.

It's not logical but I still expect my morning phone call.