I am looking for my friend. In spite of the social networks today drawing families from the far reaches of the world, finding long lost classmates and even tracking down errant lovers, I still have had no success locating Maria Luisa.

Whenever I think about her, my heart feels a painful twinge. We were so close. How could we have lost touch? I saw her last in the late 1960s, when she came to visit with her ex-navy man husband and their two children in a huge camper. They hooked up to our power and stayed the night. We chatted until sunrise.

She was my best friend all through high school. After two years of university, she left for Spain.

We called her Chichita. She was tiny, very pretty and had a million-dollar smile. She was hopelessly nearsighted, squinted like Mr. Magoo without glasses, and peered over her thick lenses to read.

In school her uniform was always crisply pressed, her curly hair neatly brushed and pinned back with pretty clips. She was not too athletic and preferred to sit under a tree with a book while we played war ball. She looked up now and again and rooted for the team at the top of her lungs.

Chichita was my bosom buddy. We shared confidences. Laughed and cried together. I told her my secrets. She told me hers. We compared notes on crushes and first kisses. We trusted each other completely. I guess that’s what friends are all about. According to novelist Jane Austen, “A friend is someone you can tell your important nothings to.” That’s exactly what we did.

Her mother, doña Maria Villanueva, made my first long gown for my 18th birthday. No, I didn’t have a formal debut. I never wanted one. But I wore it to my cousin’s coming-out ball a few days before, at the Sky Room of Jai Alai. By the way, it still grieves me that the Manila government gave orders to demolish that gorgeous Art Deco building on Taft Avenue, without doubt destroying a beautiful part of our precious heritage. What were they thinking?

Doña Maria taught me how to walk “like a lady” in her lovely creation of white organdy with little delicate handmade pleats. “You are 18 now,” she scolded. “Those are high heels and stockings you are wearing, not rubber shoes and socks. You are in a ballroom, not a ballpark.”

I learned how not to slouch, and to walk sedately, stepping first with my toes and then softly landing on my heels without a sound. Once I got the hang of it, I loved the swish of the silk slip on my legs. I felt so grown up.

Here’s a little trivia for you. In the 18th century, “bosom friends” were little snippets of flannel, wool or fur, stitched or knitted artfully together that women wore under their muslin dresses to keep their chests warm.

Incidentally, they also served as enhancers for ladies who were not too generously endowed. Conservative old biddies were aghast at the thought of the “scandalous” second purpose.

In later years ladies learned to stuff their bras with Kleenex. That was before the advent of falsies, and way before silicone and other surgical makeovers came into fashion. Today, it is rare to see a young woman with a flat chest, and a bosom buddy now simply means someone close to your heart.

Friends don’t happen by accident. We choose them. We want them in our lives. And we keep them there as long as we can.

By definition, “a friend is a person one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection typically exclusive of sexual or family relations.”

Thanks to Facebook, however, the term has taken a rather technical and impersonal dimension. People can click to “friend” or “unfriend” you. Seems a bit cold, doesn’t it? Gone is the warm and fuzzy feeling of friendship.

Good friends seek to bring out the best in one another. Your closest friend opens your eyes to the truth, even when it will hurt you. Oscar Wilde puts it this way: “A true friend stabs you in the front.” I think I would rather that than being stabbed in the back, wouldn’t you?

I feel pity for the high and the mighty, for famous people whose power and fame depend on bright lights and the adulation of the crowd. Do they have any real friends? Sycophants, fans and followers applaud, fawning all over them as long as the spotlight shines. At the first sign of trouble, and when darkness sets in, they take flight and are nowhere to be found.

The bonds of friendship are fragile and must be strengthened by selfless commitment. There must be mutual trust, affection and unconditional understanding. In other words, true friendship is a give-and-take situation, with no one keeping score.

A friend knows when to speak, takes the time to listen, and considers being silent. A gesture, a nuance in your tone, even a sharp intake of breath is like a conversation with your friend, and she understands, completely.

As I continue my search for Maria Luisa, I am on my knees in gratitude for the friends that today are part of my life. They have kept me sane, cheered me on when the score was not in my favor; talked sense and prayed strength into me during my weakest moments.

My friends have seen me at my best and loved me at my worst. They take me just as I am, young or old, elated or disheartened, cranky, cross or happy. I can’t imagine my life without them. Thank you God. You sent me angels, disguised as friends.

After all, “We are, each of us, angels with one wing and we can only fly by embracing one another”—Luciano de Crescenzo.