Now Playing: Ben Rector
It’s been nearly nine months, as finger-counting shows,
since the night you casually changed my life.
A habit of yours for three decades now.
My first friend and favorite cousin,
a soul sister I’ve spent my life
yearning to resemble.
Several weeks snuck through unnoticed
before I took time to explore.
An Apple Music artist’s tour that ended with album purchase.
Magic.
But not at first.
I lost myself, as usual, in the melodies and rhythms.
Orchestrated poetry that burrows over time.
“Duo,” “Kids,” “Sometimes,” “Drive.”
A perfect soundtrack for an evening errand,
or a day of design and spreadsheets.
And yet, the refrain that haunts my soul:
Simple, true.
“You can’t make old friends.”
The twisted, tarnished key to a lock you hadn’t noticed.
——
Fast-forward.
Pause.
Play.
A journey we’ve begun together.
Not quite like time travel.
More like a home movie
housed inside the mind.
I see myself as a young gymnast.
Tumbling, stretching, swinging, dance.
Listening in on my teammates’ chats,
just a few steps away.
I’m ten or so, and another birthday has arrived.
Girls from church at my house for the party.
We play tag with silly string.
I pretend I can remember the names
from their favorite boy bands.
It’s high school: band, choir, theater.
Mall smoothies and late-night playground climbs.
The unconscious social chameleon
Safe in her small-town terrarium.
Then graduation. College.
New apartments every year (or less).
A career in Indiana
and creating my own “home.”
Stop.
Rewind.
Whither the old friend?
I’ve learned to love quickly one must give of oneself.
Building connection through shared interest,
shared experience,
shared vulnerability.
With Idina and Kristin, knowing we need not
change for the better
to see ourselves changing
for good.
——
In the shadow of memory, I see me 1.0
wanting only to fit
in the place where she stood
I do not think she was chasing
”the geographical cure”
but rather, saw each new chapter
as a new beginning
A second chance
to make that first impression right
The seedling digs itself down deep before emerging
blossoms, leaves
The caterpillar hides itself away
disintegrates
to fly
The human
feeling ever insufficient
moves steadily toward change
accepting its sacrificial price
and clinging to the souvenir
of memory
Souvenirs
from the time spent vacationing
in the life of another
A tourist
A friend
whole-hearted
for a time
——
It may not be my nature
to spread roots, deep and wide
I’ve never had a green thumb, after all
But in the place where I now stand
I wonder
if these soul vines are long enough
and strong
and bold
to climb the walls built up around
May they extend beyond the garden
to wrap tightly
around new friends
that together
someday
will grow old