Minutes ago, I mailed a letter to a friend. It was a letter I'd put off writing for weeks, since I'd seen her at Christmas.

J is an alcoholic. This I have known for years, from long periods of sobriety and these more recent ones of heavy drinking. But at Christmas, it seemed to me she had turned a corner. Her humor - usually so smart and unconventional that it often made me snort with laughter - was this time far over the top and crude. It was no longer original or funny. Several times, I was embarrassed by her words. Most alarming, she repeated stories - several times in the same day, sometimes in the same hour.

I spent two nights with her and, to my shame, lied the third night and told her I was going home early. In fact, the friends in whose cabin I was staying and I had agreed we did not want to see her again.

It was Christmas Eve. I knew she was alone that night, her ex-husband out of town with her only daughter. My heart broke for her. Yet I understood my friends' viewpoint and frankly, I felt the same.

I have pulled away from her in the past, for the very same reason. When we met, she was sober. She stayed that way for years. Then, while on an island vacation several years ago, she had one drink. It felt good, she said, so much so that she wanted to drink more. But she swore she could control it.

The day before Christmas, she drank three microbrews before lunch, swallowed a major painkiller and emptied most of a bottle of wine during the afternoon.

There are friends who share deep thoughts with you, friends who inspire, who offer advice, who listen to your troubles and share theirs with you, those who feel as comfortable as home and as light as air. Laughter plays a part in them all.

But then there are those who consistently make you laugh 'til you pee your pants, snort or clap your hands in delight.

There are only a handful of people in everyone's life like that, whose humor strikes a chord so perfectly you laugh long past the point at which others stop. It's the kind of laughter that is common in childhood, but rare among us adults. According to statistics, kids laugh more than 300 times a day. Adults? Less than 15.

So finding someone who elicits that kind of unbridled delight is like opening a gift. One you want to keep forever.

J was one of those gifts. We made one another laugh with ridiculous frequency for most of my 13 years in the mountains. We began to drift when she resumed drinking.

I didn't realize how precious she and those amazing other people were until now, when many of my friends have moved or drifted away, when I'm living in a new city and working to make new friends.

I realized this evening, as I wrote to her, that I haven't laughed that way since she'd visited here last fall. She was drinking then, but my son was here and it didn't swing out of control during those 16 or so hours. Robby still talks about that visit, the funny things she said and did.

You can't walk away from a gift as wonderful as that. And to turn your back on them when the laughter stops, when their presence no longer delights but embarrasses, when they begin the slow process of self-destruction, seems to break the unspoken contract that is a friendship. While it's not a marriage, friendships carry some of the same level of commitment. In sickness and in health. These words keep running through my mind.

So I sat down this evening and wrote that letter. I slipped into it gradually, telling her of my concern, which sprang from how much she meant to me. I told her my letter was written for selfish reasons - that she makes me laugh like few ever have, that I need her to keep me laughing, that she has to stay healthy for me, damnit. I told her many things, at first, because I knew writing them was the right thing to do, the right words to put on the page. But as I wrote, I realized how very true it was, how much she means to me, how much I have missed her and how much grayer my life would be without her. How much it saddens me to see her hurting, numbing age-old wounds with alcohol.

Could be that she won't write back, or call. Ever again. Could be this letter has cost me the friendship. Could be she sniffed out my lie at Christmas and wrote me off with the new year. I hope not, but even if she rejects the friendship, maybe she'll consider the words. That alone will make this letter worth writing.

I have somewhere this goofy picture of the two of us taken probably a decade ago. We are taking a break from a photography session in the mountains. The newspaper staff members were modeling that fall's new ski fashions. Robby was there, just 2 years old, decked out in a $250 snowsuit; that photo made the newspaper, as did a couple of me, and at least one of J.

In this particular picture (a candid not even remotely considered for publication), J and I are both grinning like hyenas. My mouth is stretched wide, exposing teeth and gums and my head tilted up, such that you can see up my nostrils (thankfully, clean). J's mouth is caught in an "oh!" Her hand is raised up and twisted around above both our heads; what she is doing I have no idea. Aesthetically, it is not our finest moment. But we are head to head, happy as hell.

Who took the photographs? Brad, of course.

How time has changed the course of these three lives.

I took that picture down from the wall of my Colorado Springs townhouse more than three years ago, when I had an experience with J similar to this Christmas. I pulled away then, turned my back, hoped it - or she - would just go away. Now I see how wrong that was, how delicate and precious friendships are, how reverently we should treat those characters who catapult unexpectedly into our lives and pepper them with life.

When I unpack those pictures from storage this summer, when hopefully we'll move into our new home, that dusty photo's coming out of hiding. Whether or not J reconnects with me, I'll find a patch of wall for it, a little place of honor for her and for our friendship.

"Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."

I try to make this quotation my mantra. When someone cuts me off in traffic, I think, "Sucks to be you," or "Who pissed in his Post Toasties?", or something equally compassionate. It's a less poetic version of the above, I like to think. While I'm not exactly feeling sorry for the guy (because it's always a guy who cuts you off in traffic), I realize it's not my fault, that something far removed from me or my driving is making the driver act like an ass. I mean, injured soul.

OK, so maybe it's nothing like the above. And for damn sure I don't always adhere to this ideal, near saintly way of life. I confess, I have flipped people off.

The other day, a man behind me honked when I didn't move forward on the green light quickly enough. Probably, I should have ignored him. Instead, I waved merrily to him in my rear-view mirror. And when he came up beside me in the double through lanes at the next light, I turned sideways, waved just as wildly and grinned from ear to ear. Spittle was hitting the inside of his front passenger window as he let loose a string of what were most likely NC-17-variety words. His face was crimson with anger.

Was I being kind? Did I help to defuse the situation? No. This man was furious, for reasons I do not know, except that I was only his fleeting target, not the reason. Anger, I believe, is nothing more than hurt magnified. Something was eating him up inside. I should have ignored his horn honk and moved on instead of aggravating him further.

But wouldn't that be easier to do if we knew the pain each of us carries? How much kinder would we be if, instead of wondering why a co-worker lashes out at us with no apparent provocation, the reason was obvious. Written on him for everyone but them to see. "Verbally abused by father, uncertain he can ever measure up."

Mine, for instance, would say "Bipolar," "Single mom," "History of heartbreak (arguably self inflicted), distrust of men beyond friendship." And on some days, only: "PMSing."

My older sister's might read: "Epileptic," "Never married, no kids, has endured long periods of intense loneliness," "Aching for a reason to get up in the morning."

My sister's countenance is often blank and hard to read. At first glance, she may appear bored with you, dis-interested and daydreaming. But how much differently would you treat her if you only knew? How much differently would even I treat her if these labels flashed in my mind every time I spoke to her? For my sister and I have little in common and struggle for conversation, such that I would often rather avoid interaction. How can you abandon someone when their pain is always before you?

Think of all we would suddenly see.

The clerk snaps at you when you attempt to return an item at Target. "What's wrong with this?," she demands. You know a reason isn't required, only a receipt. You may realize she's likely exerting her frustrations on a stranger. Even so, you're tempted to snap back.

Until you see the words floating in front of her: "Lost 7-year-old daughter six years ago today to cancer."

Or, on a bright, sunny, spring day, when you are feeling on top of the world, you see an older man walking toward you on a city sidewalk. He looks at you. You smile. "Hello! Beautiful day, isn't it?" He frowns and walks on without replying and you feel a flash of annoyance. How could anyone be so rude on such a great day?

You turn to glare at his retreating back and there, in black and white letters, is the reason. "Agoraphobic." "Poverty stricken." "Abandoned by family." "Fears he will end life alone."

Even the seemingly happy ones would have stories. The handsome, smiling man who holds the door for you appears to never had had a care in the world, but there it is written: "Cancer survivor. In remission."

The couple holding hands make your heart ache because you have no one. His reads: "Twice divorced. Trying to love again but fears loss/failure."

We'd see things like these:

Pending divorce.

Fresh heartbreak.

Ongoing domestic violence.

No male role model in childhood.

Witnessed father's suicide as teen

Fired earlier today.

Undiagnosed anxiety disorder.

Long-term childhood sexual abuse.

All these things, if we but knew, could excuse so much and inspire us to send a smile to a sad-eyed stranger, ignore a hostile word.

But we can't know why. We can only imagine.

So when the driver tries to merge into your lane at the very last second -- miles after everyone else already has -- realize that he may not be just a jerk who fails to consider others' time. He may be an overworked, divorced dad trying desperately to make his son's final soccer game. And perhaps, instead of ignoring him or shooting him a glare in exchange for letting him in, you'll make the trip a bit brighter for you both. Perhaps you'll simply drop back, signal him in and smile.

He could have been Parents Without Partners' poster child. Not too tall, not too short, cute but not to the point of intimidation, dark hair lightly shot with gray, kind eyes, a sensitive soul.

Jeff was my first contact with the group. I was immediately impressed.

After four months of trying, I am now an official card-carrying member of PWP. Since Thanksgiving, I have tried and failed to make one of their orientations, required before you can pay your dues, become a member and attend their events. A few weeks ago, I became fiercely determined to do it.

I'd stared at the calendar of events each weekend, noting that had we joined, we'd have had two or three family events from which to choose. Places to go at which Robby and I would both have people our own age with whom to consort. Instead, our weekends were typically just the two of us, often lonely, sometimes boring. We relied on one another too much as playmates, a situation that had grown worse since our move to the child-light apartment complex. This had to change, I knew, the sooner, the better.

Last week, I canceled a night out with the Hot 'n Spicy Food Meetup, an evening to which I'd been looking forward because the last event had been heavily male (4 women/16 men) and I had engaged in hours of mutually satisfying flirtation. But I believed the people at PWP would play a far more key role in mine and Robby's life than the Hot 'n Spicy group boys. Reluctantly, I turned my back on them.

Last Wednesday, I drove 45 minutes north to the suburban town in which the orientation was scheduled. I ambled into the McDonald's, and scanned the diners with puzzlement, a look that was not lost on the handsome stranger who approached me. "PWP?"

I nodded.

"We're back here." I followed him into the playland, where another graying man sat. I sat down on a bench facing them. My black skirt, professionally just below the knee when standing, now rose up to several inches above it. The legs of which I was usually proud were suddenly embarrassing, too obvious, too long, too much out there. And we were all too close, facing one another on the insides of two kid-sized benches. I tried to push the skirt down. Did I look a strumpet or a professional? Or perhaps just what I was -- a professional woman overdue for some masculine attention?

Whatever. The polite conversation among us was awkward.

Eventually, thankfully, two other parents - making for a total of seven children - joined us. As well as another PWP board member, a wide-faced, big-bellied fellow named David.

PWP, I quickly learned, is a place of multiple children and fresh wounds. I am an irregularity from the start. The mother of one older child, a divorcee of - gasp! - 10 years! Not a soul I've met has yet failed to express surprise at this. I'm not sure how to take that. But I see clearly that almost all of them are in the healing stages.

Mine is a would long since become a scab picked off and dropped on some bar-room floor. The process for me was not difficult, in large part because I was the one who left. My respect and corresponding love for my husband had died by degrees over a course of years. By the time the parting came, my pain was minimal.

Lest you think this sounds cold, know that I grieved it before that day, watched in sadness as it all slipped away. And that my greatest wound was yet to come. Via a boyfriend. Not my husband. We are all wounded by relationship. Just not necessarily the same ones.

Jeff is on the soft edge between healing and a clean bill of health. From what I gathered, he has been divorced less than two years. Perhaps he is naturally sensitive, but his emotions are high, and ring to me of some still-worrisome pain. Perhaps it's one of those pains that never entirely leaves.

When he spoke last week of the role PWP has played in his life, his brown eyes filled with tears. My heart softened.

"My self-esteem was shattered when I came to this group," he said. "These people helped me so much. They've been so supportive.

"I met my best friend here. Todd and I now have an LLC doing fix-and-flips. Next week, I'm going to Mexico with seven other PWPs."

He smiled at all of us, his eyes lingering - I wanted to believe - on mine.

"I met my girlfriend here, too. She's going to Mexico with us."

I blinked. Thought, 'Damn.' That thought almost immediately trampled by my self defense, which said, 'Honestly, he's a bit too much of an emotional sap anyway.'

Jeff continued. "This is not a dating club, though people do date here. It's not a drinking club, though there is alcohol."

He spoke of the many volunteer efforts the group made, the educational programs for kids and adults. I liked everything he told us, at least all that I could hear.

Because the kids apparently were hitting it off great. Piercing screams emitted from high up inside the primary-colored twists and turns of the playland. The other adults appeared not to notice. I was as long past piercing screams as I was my divorce. The sounds were jarring. I concentrated fiercely on not jumping, starting or grimacing. We were all parents, after all. If I was to be one of the team, I had to accept all the players.

The meeting adjourned with the payment of dues, signing of papers and promises to see one another soon.

At home an hour later, I saw that I finally could tap into the pre-dues-paying forbidden PWP calendar. Saturday, the group planned to meet at a mega-swimming complex on the far north end of town. I RSVP'd 'yes.'

What did one wear to such an event? A bikini seemed over the top, yet my aging one-piece had lost its stretch and become little more than a black bag.

Spring is imminent. I'd just been paid. Surely, it was new swimsuit time. Surely, Target was calling my name.

I opted on something slightly less than a bikini: brown boy shorts with a brown-patterned bikini top. I wondered if I should remove the belly button ring. Was it too much? What sort of message did it send?

Am I obsessive? Paranoid? Insecure? Do you want to slap me? Yes, yes, yes and, I'm afraid, yes.

My friend Stephanie critiqued the suit and gave me the directive I needed. "It's cute," she said. "How many women ..." she stopped short of saying "your age" and quickly took another direction. "Jane, if you've got it, flaunt it."

Flaunting was not at all what I wanted to do. Flaunting did not make new female friends. And flaunting was something I could only do with alcohol, which usually meant that I also stumbled, killing the whole flaunting thing anyway. Flaunt I would not. But wear the suit I would.

We arrived at the complex about 10 minutes after the start time. On my right wrist was the orange band we new members had each been given at our orientation. "Wear these to your first few events," Jeff had instructed. "That way, we'll find you."

It would also likely not be difficult to find the group, one man suggested. "Look for the group with too many kids and too few wedding rings."

Dave, attired in swim shorts and his orange wrist band, found me before I spied them. I introduced him to Robby and he gestured to two boys just coming out of the slide pool. "Neil, Alex, this is Robby."

Neil was a tall, gangly, acne-besieged 13-year-old with long black hair that flopped over one eye. Something in his stance said he was the leader of the pack. Alex was brown haired, slightly taller and broader than Robby, with eyes that radiated good humor.

Both extended their hands to Robby. "Hi Robby," Neil said. "How's it going Robby," said Alex. Robby shook them, his face red with embarrassment at the formal adult gesture and his sudden center-stage status.

But there was little time for that. Neil turned, grabbed a tube and handed it to Robby. With his other hand, he touched Robby lightly on his shoulder, steering toward the stairs that led to the top of the tube slide. "C'mon, let's go." Robby grinned, turned with them and did not look back. I saw the three of them begin to chatter at high speed.

My eyes brimmed with tears. This was exactly what I had hoped PWP would do for him. This picture before me was my vision come to life.

David looked around the pods of adults on the edges of the pools. "Let's find the others," he said.

We found them, a group of 8 or so adults, a healthy mix of men and women. They were accompanied by an unknown number of children, since almost all of them were in the water.

The women lay on loungers, surrounded by towels and beach bags brimming with kid treats. They were dry. All but one wore one-piece suits. A heavyset blonde wore a too-small bikini. She was smiling, but yanking repeatedly downward on the elastic of her bottoms down.

Two of the men were wet and smiling, fresh from the pools. Another lay prone on a lounger, several feet away from the rest of the crowd, eyes closed, apparently sleeping.

The women were talking about people, perhaps other members, I did not know. They greeted me, then turned back to their conversation. I padded around after David. He was someone I knew, someone friendly, someone to whom I was not attracted, and someone whose role it was to welcome the newcomers. He may not have wanted me to follow him, but he had to. Most of all, he was safe.

David and I went down the tube slide. We watched the kids. We sat in the hot tub. After about an hour of this, a few other PWP members joined us in the adult-only tub, blessedly far removed from the shrieking crowd at the "family" hot tub.

I clicked with Doris, a pretty late-30ish woman with a nice figure dressed in a shapeless, flowered one piece. I wondered why she didn't reveal more of her figure. Until she began to talk. She had been left, and not all that long ago, by her husband. Why she did not say. But now she had sole custody of her two boys, 12 and 8. Like Jeff, her self-esteem had been shattered by the divorce. And while it had happened some time ago, she had not had time to date since. Without hearing the words, I could see that she had not yet regained her self confidence.

I liked her even more for this. Because she was uncertain, and didn't realize she was so attractive; she was sweet and dedicated to her kids. Because I sensed the zip that had fueled her in her younger days was only shallowly buried. I thought we would be friends, and I could help unearth it all, and we would have some real fun then. And also because her mother had saddled her with a bad name.

I walked back to the group of women, and made an attempt to converse. Doris aside, they seemed to have an established clique. I talked to them about the orientation, meeting Jeff, the trip to Mexico, his mention of a PWP business partner and a girlfriend.

At that, Renee turned immediately to Christy. "Jeff's back with," she said an indistinguishable female name.

"Really?" Christy said, leaning in toward Renee.

Renee shrugged. "I guess so," she said. She turned back to me, but I knew this was fodder for still more conversation.

I retreated to the hot tub, where most of the men now sat. Charlie, like Alex, had sparkly eyes that promised mischief. His face was open, friendly and kind. Scott also had a pleasant manner, but his conversation - critical of the club, his schedule and other things - suggested to me he was deeply bitter. Tom was simply aloof, offering a nod, a hello and little else.

Robby hung out with his two new friends all afternoon. I waited him out and finally, he confessed that he was tired. He wanted to go home.

We said our goodbyes. They shouted out farewells, and come-again soons.

"Was that fun, Robby?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." In Robby speak, that meant he'd had a blast. But because the day had been my idea, he didn't want to admit it had been a good one just yet.

We walked out in the gray day and I felt a small surge of hope. It was too soon to say for sure, but perhaps, just maybe, we had stumbled onto something good.

Perhaps even, something wonderful.