hold out your hands like this

I’m trying to write this story. About moving. About moving on. And I keep getting stuck on this image. The three of us, hugging and crying and laughing all at once in the pitch dark bitter cold of winter in Minnesota. While I was living it, I knew I’d remember it forever. It was just one of those times where you take a breath and think hard. Concentrate to see all the details. Smell all the smells. I knew I wanted this with me for the road ahead. Remembering how cold my pants legs were against my skin. Remembering the sound of a shattering coffee mug. Remembering what friendship can be and sometimes is. I’ll get it out eventually. For now it keeps kicking around my head and stirring up happy sometimes, sad some other times. The power of friendship is strong.

Stronger than strong.

Jo is home. Back in Minneapplesauce. Apparently, it never gets easier to say good bye. I miss her and her couch and her near endless supply of smarts and quips and pep talks. The girl is a real gem. A real gem, I tell you. We stayed up late yapping and making each other laugh. We drank my weight in pricey booze. We went all over this crazy town. Today I was tired and blurry eyed and happy. Vacation after glow.

Speaking of friends.

Irene sent me a haiku book. Published by a girl who is kinda like me. With glasses. Kinda not like me at all. With barrettes. Inside was tucked a postcard. It said, simply, that my haiku were better. And the best part about that is they probably aren’t any better. Oh, maybe one of my best haiku trump one of her worst haiku. But most likely they’re just the same. Here’s the thing though. The Important Part. I know Irene thinks mine are better, and that’s pretty cool.

I’d write a haiku here but.

I told Mike about how I see people sometimes. How I’ll just see them. Them. Suddenly. At their very worst or their very best. Just a flash. Like two frames in a movie. Then it’s gone and I feel like I have this insight that I shouldn’t have. Like I read a diary or heard a rumor I wish I hadn’t heard. It happened while we were talking. Not of Mike, of a passer by. Even clumsier than this, I asked if it happened to him. The seeing people. The peek. Watching his face to see if my new fall tv show style confession would hit anywhere that made sense to him. To my surprise, he said “yes.” To my surprise, I thought “huh.”