After three months of cold calls and missed texts, I finally got to see her. She's the kind of friend that stands so tall and strong, you wonder if falling is even possible. (Which, of course, it is--and she did; and so did I.)
But when I saw her ocean/emerald/lost-gem eyes tonight, I felt the need to write. Because after this last week of weight, for both myself and my family, it seems like acknowledging the light and truth and goodness in our "everyday" is all the more necessary.
The darker a moment becomes, the higher we build our fires. (Something like that, right?)
So, for now, here are a few descriptors of a warm encounter.
When I saw her face: like taking my first bite (ever) of ice cream cake. You realize that, when circumstances allow--a balancing act of textures/thoughts/seemingly incompatible substances/personalities--this (person/moment) is one of your favorite things.
When she shared her heart: like whispering secrets on the playground during lunch time; swapping chocolate pudding for Doritos, and making sure the boys didn't get too close to tease or hear. It's something so innocent and yet so deeply vulnerable, to exchange emotion and experience with one another in a place you deem "safe"; a place you deem strong enough to hold you, both, when your stories won't hold themselves.
When she offered a beer: like lighting the bonfire on 17th street during an abandoned summer night at 16 years old. There was something tribal exchanged in the caramel brown bottles that represented, not the consumption of a distraction or the inebriation of authenticity, but rather the raw energy in drinking down bitter things while speaking honestly.
When she heated leftover rice and Indian food (plus Reeses cookies), and joked at the lack of "homemade" in her hosting: like a forgotten family dinner ritual, where mother offers her very best--and the next day, family consumes it all (hungrily) again.
When I walked out the door: no tsunami, no earthquake, no tornado; it was just a simple moment, shared with a friend I hadn't seen (and one that my heart missed dearly) for months. It was simple; like an ocean wave hugging the shore--and then running back home.
There is something serene, and untouchable, about a true/messy/months-without-talking/honest friendship. I won't try to pin it down or chain it, so I'll leave it at this:
For tonight, friendship is like stargazing.
Sometimes silence is better than sound. And when you do speak, how much more weight (and meaning) will your words have, standing against a blank-canvas sky, shining. [Sounds corny, sure; but let's forfeit the need to sound original...for now.]
There is something serene here--and I will stop talking to let it breathe.
I will let the silence speak, now.