For Abby, on the eve of her 27th birthday.
At the end of my days,
I'll look back and remember giggles
shared in a haunted house,
in the shadows of an old staircase.
I'll recall that bitter December
when, like Austen sisters,
we shared a bed and
warmed one another
with secrets and stories.
I can't imagine a time
when I won't think back
to the night when we and our neighbor,
drunk with new house jitters,
danced until we created a holy trinity.
The Sundays filled with new songs
and simple food and
the best of friends.
The late nights spent searching
for truth or comfort or beauty.
I consider the mundane mystery
we've shared and give thanks
for the everydayness of it -
the coffee, records, hairpins,
our secret language that confounds.
We've cried at the magic of the stage,
sworn we should run away
to chase our dreams,
discovered art in our own backyard,
and fallen in love with our lives.
We've grown up -
you and I -
and it's hard and gorgeous
and scary and grace-filled.
And I'm grateful for it all.