Sitting in a friends home, on the way to another friends home, on the way home. The w key doesn't work very well, my husband strums a different guitar, the children play upstairs. The espresso is delicious, but unknown. The air quality is comfortable, but unknown. Yet there is familiarity everywhere, because friendship is a form of coming home. I can just go home by closing my eyes now. I can breathe in and have a smell in my nostrils and a feeling in my heart and a family to cuddle with. I can think of yogurt and lamb and potatoes and I will come home. Every tradition is old and new. Every friendship feels heart warming and troubled and comfortable.
The song I hear is sweet and gentle and a companion. But I miss her and I will for always.
I can't wait to see you, Anne.
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