I spent some time with a dear friend yesterday, just floating.
It was so summery, like a cliche, or a Target ad.
Us on our swimming pool floaties (the grown-up kind, not the waste-huggers), gnoshing on pool-side food like berries and marshmallows on kabobs, pasta salad, almonds, crackers, cheese. Oh, and beer. Girly, light, hoppy, summer beers.
We traveled the world while we worked on our tans, verbally traversing Plato, theology, literature, Jesus, academia, family, photography, writing, bad dates, best friends, best worst-mistakes and boys. We meandered and laughed, ranted and splashed. All the while floating, letting the water buoy us in our convictions.
We're a bit different, she and I. She a first-born, and her far-flung arms and long-legged beauty and perfect teeth, joyously rioting in all things experiential, sensory, and emotional. Me and my curvy calves and flat feet, hard-headed slow intellectual processing, and "of-courseness" about things, the surety that comes with being the youngest child.
And yet while we talked, there was no such thing as the of-courseness; there was only the experience, only the sharing, only the time spent floating, suspended in the present.
It's a beautiful way to spend a summer day. A moment of hope, of contentment, made sure by the substance of friendship.
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