I spent yesterday in the company of one of my closest childhood friends.

S, today, is a journalist and editor. She lives in a bright mote of a town in Western Colorado, and had been invited here for a professional event. She had flown in early and had a few hours before her first obligation, and we arranged–in voices breathless with laughter and expectation–to meet for lunch at a restaurant near her hotel.

I had not seen her in years.

From autobiology.