I’m sitting on my friends patio in Kimberly, BC attempting to get some school work done in between mountain hikes and casual catch ups discussing old times and naive days. A newborn child is slung around her chest, fit closely to her body in a black wrap. She smiles as she pats her baby boys head. He coos. Yawns. And rests his eyes. Perspiration drips off the bottles of Corona we are holding.
It’s fun to reminisce about the old times. She is my oldest friend. She was there from when my eating disorder had a firm grasp over my life to when I found eventual peace. She was there as I broke out of the cocoon of insecurity into a brightly coloured rainbow butterfly that was told that my wingspan is “too large” and “too loud” yet I persisted to fly. She might not have known it but she was there.
I appreciate the quiet now. We may not be going clubbing, hitting the streets, and coming home at 3am (well, she never made it passed 1am before I had to call her would be husband to come pick her up). I appreciate the rustle of the wind in the trees, the soft warmth of the sun on our skins, the coo of her newborn baby, and in particular, I appreciate the smell of her husband cooking us food in between mountain hikes and casual catch ups discussing old times and naive days.