It’s good, here with you you in front me in back the dust behind us You, with your backpack, green and hugging your sweaty body as we chug upwards where even a rock or feather or piece of garbage finds purchase because I say slow down, hold up, wait so I can unzip the side pocket and stuff my treasure or trash or secret into that space and when I finish when I store what I think needs keeping I zip it closed, pat you on the shoulder and say let’s go And then, with the end nowhere in sight, I keep walking and for a long time I wonder why I am here, now with you, why you why not someone else someone else I know And as I step forward I think about those people I think about the friend who has stage 4 lung cancer but still knows Joy And the friend who cooks me stew I think about the friend who runs a non-profit And the one who sent me flowers I think about the friends who have lost their parents who’d lost their pasts; histories burned through by mitochondrial heat I think about the friend who paints gentle landscapes And the one who paints pain across a clean white sheet I think about the friend who was once a lover And the friend whose card never arrived I think about the friend whose guide dog leads her through gardens in a distant land And the friend whose daughter became a man I think about the four friends I have who are doctors Healing the sick, stemming the tide, Catching babies with their gloved hands As a dry wind rises to rinse the sweat from my neck I think of my friends who work to change laws And the friends who protect creatures who walk on all fours I think of my friends who critique my words And all the others who share their words I think about the friend who adopted two babies who have long since grown And the friend in Peru sowing grief on her own I think about a friend who shelters the homeless And another who fixes computers And another who sells computers I think of my friend Igor I think of the two lovelies I met in Mexico As well as the friend who lives in Reno And then while stopping to retie my boots I remember the friends I've had to let go I think of a friend who works for a dentist I think of my friend who is a dentist I think of a friend who lost her two breasts And the too many friends who have lost friends to death I think of old friends who have since become new The poet, the wealth manager, the Microsoft guru And I think of the cousins who happen to be friends too I think of my friend who writes stories for kids And the one who buries the dead without cement lids I think of the friend who at last found her one true love Up ahead I see the lake, the sun spitting across its surface Mayflies, alive for a second, crowding the luminous dermis As we push ourselves toward the crest of the hill I think of the friends I’ve never met I see them I talk to them I write to them, yet I have no idea how they smell I’ve never watched them eat I’ve never seen them walk into the room I have no idea if they cross their legs while sitting or If they pick at their cuticles while chatting on Zoom I think of the many friends who have picked me up As if I were a carelessly discarded gum wrapper or a treasure; a pretty stone that is tucked into the side pocket zipped shut, safe worthy enough to carry like I carry them once we leave the view from up high and head back to the car.
