It is Tiny and Beautiful, and It is Mine

I have the urge to write something tiny and delicate today, like little bird knuckles or a sympathetic hand placed on your shoulder by a stranger.

Last night I sat outside in the rain with an old old friend of mine (16 years) and we talked about the tenuous web that held our friendship together--she is a devout and practicing Christian; I am a devout and practicing agnostic (who leans heavily towards atheism). I wonder often why it is that we choose to come back to one another like this all the time, leaning over tables, chitting about relationships, howling and laughing like back when we were in high school. I wonder how it is that she justifies being friends with someone who, based on her religion, is surely going to hell.

Finally last night I asked her this, leaning over a wooden picnic table, tiny raindrops inching their way carefully through the canopy of vines above to darken my sleeves and my hair.

And she told me.

And the answer was tiny and delicate.

And, like the key to a childhood diary or a love-letter written on a napkin, I placed it very carefully in my pocket so it wouldn't get lost.

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