Last Thursday, I was on a plane. My fifth in two weeks. As we were descending, sinus pressure made my head throb – the last remnants of a cold I’d picked up back home. As soon as we landed, I turned on my phone. I had a message from an old friend who knows me
In the quiet moments, I think of you. On a yoga mat, looking at the sky. In a park with blossoms, and a saxophone playing. We were the same age, for 45 weeks of the year. Except for the seven when you were older, I could never catch up, you said. Until I did.