On "Goodbyes."

A silly little red head rubbed the freckles on her cheeks, tweaked her braids, and dreamed up the bosom friend.

Decades after that literary child sprang to life, the spirit of her words wrap themselves around a precious few of my own comrades and draw them in a swirled etch on my heart--a pattern that sinks deeper with time and seems oblivious to space.

A true friend Listens to the hush of your core: nods along and slips in her own tune, so whatever melody you hummed blends to harmony, chants a rhythm, trills complete:

because without a round, Row, Row, Row your boat is just clumsy notes
and Ode to Joy, without a symphony, another exercise.

As I boarded the train today, the Santa Barbara morning was silver as the stars. Palm trees and tourists sped past the clouded window--

past Kelsey--the woman indistinguishable from the joy of the sun, from the wisdom of the earth, from the delight of the sparrow and the patience of the waves upon the shore.

While the beach town faded, I settled into my seat.


"I've always dreamed of having a bosom friend," said Anne with a sigh. "A true kindred spirit!"


For a friendship not bound by geography~