Six years is no small feat.
Imagine, for example,
the distance the earth travels
in one year:
500 million miles,
give or take.
Which technically means
we have traveled
billions of miles together. I guess
that makes sense because who can
measure the distance traveled
when a friend miscarries or
nearly dies, or buries
a stillborn child,
or starts a business, or has a child,
or watches a parent grow old
right before their eyes? How many billions
of miles does it take to
revive a flagging marriage
or decide to move away or
start over again?
I know a hard year can feel
like at least ten million miles.
Pulling out of depression? A few hundred
million miles. Laughing at good stories?
at least a million miles each.
And we’ve done all these things
together. We’ve traveled those miles,
all while huddled around tables
on cold winter nights with ice
on the panes, or melting together on
swatting mosquitoes and watching
the children dance around the
bonfire. We’ve driven home
barely able to keep our eyes open,
fallen into bed full,
oh, so full.
Can we raise our glasses to friends,
to more stories and food and wine,
and even, if we are brave enough,
to heartaches and disappointments
and failures? Can we toast the things
we hated but that somehow
made us stronger, or wiser, or
Can we, in other words, raise
our glasses high,
on this almost winter’s night,
to another billion miles,
give or take?