The One Where The Photos Didn't Matter

I wasn't going to post any photos from this weekend's trip to the Emerald City because the most beautiful parts of it were invisible.

It wouldn't make an exciting picture if I showed you a photo of the leaves that extended D's table so ten of us could fit around it, but his making space for me and my people to gather meant the world to me.

Admittedly, M's cat is VERY cute, and sure, I'll show him to you, but I can't show you the moment my voice started shaking while talking about my mom's funeral and Shmuel the Kitten leapt from his perch above my shoulder and curled up within easy petting distance, and looked at me like, "get to it already. It'll help." and honestly, that was the moment that will stick with me the most.

It also would be very unexciting to show you a picture of a Prius at an airport, plus a bag of snacks and a bottle of kombucha, but seeing M pull up just minutes after I got outside with a hug and some desperately-needed nourishment made me feel like I was worth every ruby and then some.

And you could've technically snapped the moment V's hand drifted over the side of her armchair and held mine for a long quiet moment that seemed to fill in whole years of being out of each other's orbit, or the way A showed up barely knowing anyone but willing to be counted among my people, or the way I threw O into a deep end bible discussion the moment he walked in the door and he just rolled with it and how much it means to have people who just fucking roll with it.

There is no film or memory that can hold the look C and I gave each other when she said, "I sang that song to my husband as he was dying," and I said, "I sang that song to my mother as she was dying," and we just nodded at each other and started singing it to each other and poured light into all the aching places we held our losses.

And yeah, I could've taken pictures of the food at Babar, where D took me for a dinner that I literally seat-danced through with the delight that comes from eating a chef's love letter, but honestly, the food was too good for that, and my delighted, eyes-closed seat-dance of culinary joy really doesn't translate unless you've also got lemongrass on your tongue and you're grinning with fond amusement as I try to explain exactly why the eggplant is a fucking REVELATION and how the glutamates in the tomato are why you don't miss the beef in the pho-inspired consomme...

I honestly did try to capture the picture of the three whole-grown humans I met when they were middle schoolers who showed up for dinner, but nothing about it captured the way their shared history let them occasionally finish each others' sentences, and how it felt to hear about their adventures and marvel at what brilliant adults they've become.

And how it felt to sing with them, and the others.

And I do have a picture of "m'boys," aka The Brothers, aka, my brothers-in-outlaw, but, it does nothing to honor the moment that T told me, "I knew you were coming and would light a fire under me about that thing I needed to do," and smiled at me like I was known AND loved, and really, is there anything better than being known and loved at the same time?

How it felt like being held. How everywhere I went, there were hugs that felt like the snap of a puzzle piece, how city's streets and I nodded at each other like friendly exes who say, "You look good," and mostly mean it (I mean, I have some Thoughts about how you've gentrified, baby, but like, who among us hasn't lost a little integrity in the last couple decades?)

How glad I was to be able to say, "I'll be back soon."

Thank you. thank you. thank you.