Monday, September 17, 2012


My best friend is in Spain this semester. Not that I had forgotten this fact, but I was able to conveniently ignore it as best as possible until this weekend, when everything started reminding me of her.

We were having a lazy dinner at McAlister's, sitting outside, watching the cars drive by, and watching the summer afternoon slip into evening. Ingrid Michaelson's Far Away came over the loudspeakers. I realized how much I missed her right in that moment. I can't hear the lines: "another shoreline, in another life" without thinking of all of us climbing rocks by the sea, feeling the ocean spray against our legs, and breathing in the salty air with relish. And then everything reminded me of her: rapping Super Bass while baking; jamming on guitar and singing more Ingrid on a Saturday night; and this morning walking into Starbucks hearing Bon Iver's soft voice floating through the loudspeakers as I stirred milk into the smooth, aromatic caffeinated nectar.

It's rather incredible how we can attach songs, images, locations to a loved one. It's sort of remarkable how simple moments become something greater, because of the person they remind us of. And it's kind of miraculous how, even when seemingly separated from us, someone can continue to dwell with us through the strange little sacramentals we encounter each day: a little girl doing math homework, a friend bringing tea-and-honey, a song, or a sign saying: Please do not place burned out candles on top of new candles. It's hard to feel separated from someone when reminders of their presence await you around every corner. 

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