Cyclical

When I was younger, my best friend would visit once a year from Berkeley. Ours was (and still is) the kind of relationship that feeds itself, that grows despite the distance (or perhaps because of it), that is so thick an impenetrable that it is almost a tangible thing. Indeed, at times I feel I could reach out, grasp at the air in front of me, and if I pulled hard enough I could yank her across the California border, through Oregon, and in my back door.

It is easy to forget, in the midst of thesis-writing and novel-reading and poetry-writing, that moments never really leave us. Everything loops back on itself until the fragmented parts of our lives run as smoothly as the South Fork of a Californian mountain river.

Anyway, my story:
Whenever Sara would visit, my parents would pull out the heavy wooden bed frame from the shed and position it in my room parallel to my own bed. At night, Sara and I would spend hours sharing our fears and insecurities, telling stories and recounting adventures, promising to love each other until there was nothing left for either of us to love. We would laugh and laugh until the saltiness of tears stung our eyes, and Sara would reach for her glass of water on the shelf next to her bed. My cat Taffy, for whom raising a paw to swat a passing leg now constitutes a grueling workout, but who was once slim and trim and halfway caring, would have her head wedged so far into Sara's glass that the rim of the cup reached the base of her neck, and the hair covering her narrow face was pushed firmly against her cheekbones like she'd just jumped from a plane and the wind had blown her skin taut. Sara and I never tired of this scene. Our laughter would roll into more laughter. Every night we would lower the water level, and every night Taffy would make her way to the shelf, slide her head just a little bit further, and drink.

It has been years since my parents hauled the bed frame inside and upstairs. These days when Sara comes she sleeps on the futon in the guest room, which is directly across the landing from mine but still feels like a continent away.

I'm home this week for Spring Break, and I have been sitting on the couch working on my thesis for hours. Realizing that I needed to hydrate myself, I went into the kitchen, got a glass of water, and set it on a coaster on the table next to me. It wasn't until about three minutes later when I heard a once-familiar sound and looked over to see Taffy, her head stuffed shallowly into the cup, lapping at the water. Suddenly everything was happening again--my life was folding back on itself--and I couldn't do anything but laugh.

I love you, Sparks. Come home.