Willow comes in from San Francisco to see me. We walk around downtown in the sunny chill of April, contemplate Buying Things. We clutch cups of tea and coffee and talk about the heterogeneous ache of life, the disappointments of being human, our own small denials, our little lives in medicine. We use hard laughter, soft voices. I adore her deeply, wholly. I understand why we are friends.
Vicki, my Hawaii sister in law's sister, leaves work early and we walk the trails of Wilder. I am saying goodbye to friends and family, tracing the blueprints of my life. Every place that I go is a place I have been to so many times before, during very specific times, certain sections of my chronology. This is where I came to outrun an old heartache, that is where I used to drink too much and smoke stale cigarettes, this is where a long ago friend once lived, that is where I would go to watch the water, regain my footing. Wilder is where we are are today. It is an old farm at the base of big, open meadows and I bury my head in the tangled manes of the draft horses, slip them slices of apples, breathe in their dirt. Wilder abuts the Pacific directly; it is sharp cliffs and strong waters and from the top of it you can turn around and see the whole world in front of you, bright blue and unending.
Vicki and I sit at the top and watch the whales cross the ocean. We try to spot the babies but are only able to make out the spray. She is not my family by blood but we are bound by strong love and shared history. We are so different and so much the same and we will always be a little more than family, we will always be friends.
