Loggins & Messina and one sunrise

So tonight I sit here, knowing that so many of my favorite kids took the field in the Frank Banko Stadium in Bethlehem, squaring off with kids at my new school. I wanted to go, didn't want to go.

I feel quite conflicted. How is this? I guess I am like the general population. Change is difficult. Maybe I linger too long. Maybe it's one of my greatest fears. Perhaps that is why I always feared leaving my newspaper as all of my friends went on to larger and better papers. In the end, however, most didn't do any better than I did. In fact, a lot of them are unemployed, and I feel very safe in a job where I still feel valued. But it pained me to see them leave, and years later it pained me to leave as well.

But still, I sit here and listen to Danny's Song and reflect. It is my song when I need to reach back and hold on to those who have walked next to me over the years, people I cherish so deeply and passionately as friends. I think of Pam. And how much I miss having her in my life. And how she truly was like a soul sister to me. The ups and the downs we so shared. She was the Mother Earth in Danskos and long skirts and pottery. She knew why I loved Willi Singleton, why he'd make a woman swoon with the throw of the clay and his foot-spin of the wheel. And all of the other women who have been my nearest and dearest friends, people who got me, get me. Who cared about me. Who knew who I was (and still am) as a woman, a mother, a partner, a writer, a survivor. These wonderful people who have been daily parts of my life, but only in moments of my life. People who help you erase some really bad, dark events that at one point make you wonder when you will recover, if you will recover from the abyss.

But you can't hold onto people, as much as you want to. I want to hold the world in a paper cup. Drink up my friends, keep them close to me, not let them go. Keep them in the chain of my life. Like Pam. And Marcy. And Cathy. And the women before them. And the women after.

This week I witnessed the most beautiful sunrise as I headed to work. I pulled over at The Hillside School, the tiny facility for special needs kids, kids like my own. My cell phone didn't do the scene justice. But it's verification for me, when I need it, that life truly is a gift. It's not all of this artificial crap over which people fret and fight over. It's the simplicity of life that makes me happy. My girlfriends. My girls. Seeing my students laugh and learn. The sunrise. Comfortable shoes. A potter on the side of Hawk Mountain. Danny's Song. People like Pam. A squirrel when you need one.