I sit this morning in silence and light; my first cup of coffee in hand. My thoughts, today, are with a man and a woman. Each of them, the parent of dear friends. Each accepted me into their own family long ago and made my life better for that. As I grew older, the parents became my friends.
I reflect, this morning, on the years of kitchen table conversations with these extra parents, the assisted mechanical repairs, the shared Christmas eves, the hours fishing together from the shores of Hauser Lake, the whole arc of time that brought all of us to this silent morning. I think of how fortunate I was to have two more families.
My two friends have now reached their mid-eighties. The sweet arc of time that provided all of us with beautiful sunset drives, and trout leaping wholesale from the nearby waters, and brought us the children of children—that same arc of time has slowly, but certainly, crushed the bodies of my friends. My old friends are now slow and bent. Most days pass them by entirely.
From my window, I see vesper sparrows swimming up into the sky from the sagebrush. A slight breeze has begun to lift and examine the leaves of my linden tree. The air is filled with the newest light.
And yet, this morning, I feel only the weight of time.