Ode to Friendship

The streets of Georgia do not know our story, but I do.

We pull into the city and listen to the swish of the windshield wipers
and that Billy Joel song on the radio.
A sticky smell of earth permeates the air as the five of us
navigate our way through the influx of people and downpour of rain.
We have never been here before together and I am pensive.
There are many thoughts I want to whisper, but I don’t open my mouth.

We walk down the Savannah River linking arms and brushing shoulders,
pushing through the humidity and jumping over puddles,
calling out phrases to each other like, “Walk slower” or “Stay together.”
What I’m thinking, but don’t say, is
how odd it is that I felt a pull towards each of you,
as if our souls were already acquainted.
I didn’t know you all then, but I wanted to come up and say,
“Have we already met before?”
And maybe we had. Maybe our souls were next to each other
when the world was created, maybe they passed one another
when the planet was swirling in matter and atoms.

We split meals at diners and car rides to the market,

shoving money and tacky souvenirs and gratitude into each other’s hands.
“Here,” we all insist, “take this. You have to. I want you to.”
What I’m thinking, but don’t say, is
how we have no real obligation to cling to each other.
We are not related, no family or blood tie us together.
None of us are lovers, no relationship forces proximity or duty.
We have no reason to go through life together,
yet we still choose to call on one another with the sacredness of a prayer.

We sit in the ghost tour trolley and the people around us are judging,
as we laugh and turn our heads to find each other, as we “Ooh” and “Aah”
and scream and jump and pretend to be scared at the stories.
What I’m thinking, but don’t say, is
how lovely it is to know another person, to have words and phrases
that only you understand. That only you find funny.
Like you created your own secret language. Your own secret looks.
Like your vocal cords could one day stop working,
but I could look at you, only a glance, only a smile,
and know exactly what you are thinking.
Because I am thinking the same thing as well.
We stumble into our cheap shared hotel room, where some lay on beds
and others sprawl on couches and chairs. We shake off the umbrellas to dry
and vote on who sleeps on the floor that night.
“I’m tired,” one of you sighs. “I’m taking a nap.” It is silent.
What I’m thinking, but don’t say, is
how there is meaning in that silence, there is love in that stillness.
We can be left alone, but we are not lonely.
We can watch tv, or sleep, or flip through a magazine by ourselves.
We are quiet and don’t utter a sound, but I know you are right next to me,
and I know that makes this foreign city a little less alien.

We visit the Tybee Island Lighthouse and climb all 178 steps.
We pant and complain “I’m not going to make it” and want to give up.
But we don’t, and I buy a pin to stick on my backpack in celebration.
We lean our bodies far over the railing and feel the wind as it makes us sway.
Jokes about jumping over are made, but I feel us holding each other tight.
I tell myself: Remember this. Remember them. They’re too important.
I tell myself: Even if we did jump, I think we would fly.

The streets of Georgia did not know our story, but now they do.
They know because I have left pieces of the five of us
with every step I took on the broken cobblestone roads
and with every historic building wall I grazed my fingertips against.
Like a mosaic woven into this city with every laugh and word we spoke.

The sun is out shining now and the air smells of flowers and grass
and the pralines we have started to eat. We stuff ourselves into the car,
where we turn on the radio and roll down the windows
to let in the breeze and the light.
There are many thoughts I want to whisper, but I don’t open my mouth.
We look around. We leave Georgia. We start our drive home.
We we we we we we we.
What a magical thing to be part of a we.