Flakes

We sat huddled on the floor in the dark, and we watched the snow fall on her porch.
We just sat.
And watched.
And talked about what it used to feel like when we were little. About how it still sometimes feels like quiet magic when we see the first good snow of the year. This was not that snow, not the first. But, as we sat there together, magic came...slowly.

She pointed to a flake, shining in the porch light and said, "See that one? That one is really pretty."

And, even though I probably wasn't looking at the very same tiny flake, I nodded and said, "Yeah. And look at that one. It has very delicate pointy parts. I wonder how it made it all the way down here in one piece..."

She said, "Sometimes, I wish I was six years old again."

I said, "Sometimes, when I'm with you, I feel like I am."

"Yeah," she smiled. "Me too."

On we sat. And watched the snow. And pointed at our favorite flakes. And talked about how life is long and things change. And you never know. But, we decided we are sure of something...we keep the friends we're meant to keep.

And we are meant to keep.