We carry fold-up tables together. We carry chairs to our outdoor gathering places. We carry our teas and waters in insulated flasks. We carry our notebooks; the pages dimpled by spilled coffee, or once in a while, tears.
We carry our springy moods. We carry our new fat, our old bones. We carry hope that our kids, parents, sisters, friends around the world will be okay. We carry a thousand mini-traumas in our billion little cells. We carry grief and disbelief. We carry our scars, our dime-store candy.
We understand time is passing. We used to meet at libraries or cafes with cool iron chairs; now we meet beneath tree-shade.
We listen and strain. We see and squint. We stitch. We paint. We cry. We drum. We wait.
We heal. We wonder.
Early in life, we took similar paths. Or dissimilar paths. Regardless, we get each other.
We are brilliant. We are fuzzy in the head. We are almost twenty. We are fierce and settled sixties, forty-sevens, ninety-twos.
We have dogs who seem to need everything on Earth.
We have trouble with limits and liberation, and not worrying.
We read. We listen. We say thank you.
We leave feeling different. We ask ourselves, what just happened? We sense a newness we can't describe. By afternoon we think we've figured it out:
We needed our friends. We needed to air out our molecules and moments. We'd been holding space for a lot of beating hearts, for a long time. Writing together is one thing we can do.
We want you stop by and write with us.
We'll know you by the swish of your hair, the way you grin and breathe.
Without your having to say a word, we know we'll like you.