Lightyears.

Maybe I’ll come over to your house on a Tuesday night when the sun is about to set and everyone will be at home. Maybe we actually had other plans for this evening, but our plans were changed, so here we are. Maybe we’ll go sit on your bed and talk about life in serious terms until we laugh hysterically, even though we both know it’s sort of funny and sort of not.

Maybe we’ll walk out the front door and through a shadowy stand of trees waist-deep in fireflies. Maybe we’ll climb the hill with the sprawling field on the other side, look over the pale suburbs, and ponder. Ponder something. Maybe we’ll sit in the rusty swings and confess a few hopes and dreams while the summer sunset glows over our brunette heads, yours eternally curly and mine eternally trying to be. Maybe I’ll be slightly absorbed in the candy pink sky and miss something you say because I’m just swept away. Maybe we’ll laugh a few more wistful laughs, walk back down the hill, and leave the nodding horizon to illuminate the dusty suburban silhouette.

Maybe we’ll spend the next hour sitting on your front-porch bench, telling all the stories we haven’t had time to tell over the past few months. Tales of beautiful things and beautiful people. Maybe I’ll find a way to explain things I’ve never been able to articulate before. Maybe I won’t be able to find words for things I thought I understood. Maybe we both just need a chance to listen and be listened to. Maybe you can just be like a sister for a few hours.

Maybe I’ve finally learned that a lasting friend is no small thing to take for granted. Maybe we need each other for times like these. Moments like these. Years like these. Lives like these.

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3 thoughts on “Lightyears.

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