Sisters

I’m watching a tree dance wildly in the wind – lone tree out the center of this upstairs window, hovering over the ocean. Green variant waves, topaz on down to teal, and then it all merges with a white cap chorus. Off in the distance, a tower in San Francisco, but I look in the other direction where nothing but wind and moving water meet the horizon.

It’s been a week since we arrived at the beach house in Bolinas. Just now I begin to exhale, maybe because I’m writing again….maybe because it takes that long to let go.

Every morning before sun up I tip toe downstairs and ring my oldest friend (who happens to live next door), she picks up and whispers, “Hi, you ready?” I whisper back, “Yep, meet you in a minute.” And we go, we walk out, walk away, leave everyone behind in bed. Freedom.

With the sun, we bring ourselves to a conversation that has been revolving for almost twenty-five years. This topic and that, as we pass by the elder line of Eucalyptus trees. Two and a half miles along a lush ridge and we descend into town, which is really a small village, to grab a latte at the single coffee stand. Several people stop and ask, "Are you sisters?" We pause, smile, and search for a way to just say yes. Then down the road to the beach, we sit on a bench that opens to a wide lagoon. Golden light on every surface now and we stop to embrace the moment and this togetherness that is a bit heart breaking…….sad that we haven’t taken the time to connect as we should in these past few years. Now, so clearly aware of the inseparable quality of our lives, we face our parting.

It was twenty years ago that she threw her arms up at me in Boulder and screamed, “You can’t just leave! You can’t just pack up and go like this!” I remember staring back, that look in her eyes….what could I say?

I did leave. Again and again and again.

Somehow our lives have entwined around all the movement, across years, into different states and regions. And now, briefly, preciously, for two weeks, we are side by side. We always vowed to raise our kids together. River plays with her daughter Anwyn next door as I write.

In this one relationship, I see a reflection of two little girls, two young women, devotees, partners, mothers. Last night she leans over my essential oil bottle at our dinner table and squints. I break into a howl, "You need reading glasses!" Sheepishly, she laughs and I laugh even harder, "Me, too."

Returning home after dinner we sit in the jeep. We want to see our children but we want to feel eternity in the air, the way this marriage of sisterhood moves our bodies through time and space, to savor the sweet sensation of looking back at the brush strokes.

Little arms around our necks, limbs dangling from our hips, over whines and cries, we exchange a parting glance. Love and understanding, and a nod for the road.