sitting on the dorm building roof with my best friend, katie. did we climb out her window? we sat barefoot, the streetlights casting their glow, and looked down at passersby on the sidewalk. were we old enough to drink yet? it was the end of the semester, the evening warm, everything coming to a close. that feeling that life was opening up after the long hard cold. god, that feeling; that feeling that you were about to be free again.
as adults she sends me a text message; she has gotten off the bus too soon and has a long walk. she is in texas, so far away. she says, "I really want to spit my gum into the grass right now," and I said, "be a rebel, do it." things don't really change. we talk in some form nearly every day. I haven't seen her in five years.
five years. who may abide it.
the other day I was working in the garden and for no reason at all I thought of an old professor of mine, a friend. I thought about how it would feel to see him after so many years. I suddenly thought, I am thirty. would I still feel like a child? as I pulled weeds I thought, if age is what makes us wise, then to some people I will always be a girl. instead of being a comfort -- young forever! -- it irked me.
when I awoke this morning the windows were full of the diffuse light of dawn, airy and muted. birds were chirping madly in the tree near my window, as if in argument. is there anything so luxurious as a weekend? I lay in bed, my body spread from northeast to southwest, taking up all the room. it was not quite eight. I made a pot of coffee, a bowl of oatmeal. I called my mom. "I'm in beekeeping class," she said, "can I call you back?"
this year, my siblings will be fifteen.
sitting at my computer this morning, drinking my second cup of coffee. a text from a friend I've known for 13 years. "let's talk this weekend?" she says. my people are everywhere. they are everywhere -- california and north carolina, massachusetts and texas, new york, maryland, austria. everywhere on earth, there is someone I love. this world is bigger than any of us could dream, and yet so small, and so precious.