I closed the glass-paneled door gently behind me and started down toward the water. A slight breeze reminded me that I might be underdressed. “Yes,” it said, “it is a clear sunny day, but don’t forget. . . it is March.” Oh well, this time outside would be short, I thought. Just a short walk to the water, a short break from the kids. I’ll be fine.
I held my phone close to my ear and slowly meandered toward the lazy river that runs behind my house. On the other end of the line, I listened as one of my oldest and dearest friends recounted stories, catching me up on his life: As a principal, he will still go to work, even though his school is closed. His daughter remains in Europe, and this worries him. Stockpiling toilet paper is an issue. And other things. I caught him up a little on my life, too.
Standing on my dock now, I gazed out at the dark water slowly flowing by. It reminded me of time. Barely moving. Hard to discern the passage. I thought about how long it had been since I had spoken with my friend. Weeks? Months? How is that possible? We live on opposite coasts, but still . . .
Turning my back on the water, I slowly made my way back toward the house. It felt good to connect with an old friend. Even if only for a short bit. It felt good.