It’s too cold to be outside, but we take blankets out. We can’t resist the stars. After a moment of looking, guessing constellations, Abigail opens up her poets.org and I my Emily Dickinson. Without explanation, we take turns reading. Abigail reads with her gusto, words shooting from her mouth like they’re trying to escape to the stars. I read hesitantly, not belonging to this world of poetry Abigail loves. But we are friends, and tonight is one night that will be perfect as we huddle on a damp blanket, reading words I can’t understand, but words that light up her soul – I can see it in her eyes. This is our friendship: watching Abigail become enlightened at the touch of anything beautiful while I look on, wishing I could understand and feel and become. Wishing I could produce something as beautiful as her soul.
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