A long-time friendship is connected to ships. Trust me. Read on.
She has been my friend since I was in first or second grade. Her home provided refuge for several years when I came to visit my aging mother. I needed the emotional space. Watching my mother retreat from us as age began to cage her was beyond hard.
My friend and I built a stronger bond during the hours spent gabbing. Topics ranged from the silly to the sublime. We are comfortable with one another. She no longer lives where she has extra space in the mountain town where we were raised. So we visit over a meal at a favorite restaurant.
But when she is in Florida, there is wonderful space for us to visit, my spouse has known this friend as long as I have. When in Florida, she lives in a condo on the edge of the intercoastal waterway. Ships pass in the night and in the day.
Ships of all sizes. There are jet skis. I dislike their buzzing sound. There are fishing boats. One of those boats filled with rowers skimmed by one morning, followed by another. A man shouted commands and people rowed.
Yachts head out to the ocean. Some are larger than my doublewide mobile home. Some are so large that I ask my husband to estimate dimensions. The numbers slide in one ear and right out the other. I am not good at turning numbers into any visual understanding of just how huge some of those yachts are.
So I turn instead to pondering how much money the owners have. That thought process makes me uncomfortable in a different way. I know the hard reality many people face by having too little money or even no money. Images of refugee camps flash as I squint my eyes against the bright sun and watch a yacht glide by. I wonder if billionaires even notice the price of a loaf of bread, a gallon of gas, or does someone else handle all financial transactions.
I decide to quit thinking. I thank God for my friend and let the beauty of the day soak into my soul.