Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

Every summer for the past several years, my children and I have traveled from Ohio to Illinois to visit a dear friend of mine and her family. We’ve been friends for 31 years, since high school. It’s now an annual tradition to spend time together, all seven of us: me and my two kids, and my friend, her husband, and their two kids. The trip requires a short flight or a long drive to Chicago, but it’s worth it. Each year when we’re all together I think, “I haven’t laughed this hard since we were all together last year.”

Our two families have so many inside jokes now that my teenage daughter keeps a list on her phone of what she calls “trip lore.” We revisit the trip lore now and then during the year. Months from now, she’ll pull out her phone while we’re walking the dog or running errands, and she’ll crack me up by reading from the list of hilarious things that happened when we were with our Chicago friends. We may only be together for less than a week any given year, but the laughter lasts all year long. And when we see each other again, we pick right up where we left off, as if no time has passed.

What a gift long friendships are—those people who have known multiple iterations of us. My friends from my teens and twenties have seen me single, married, divorced, and dating again. They’re seen me with a very short pixie cut, waist-length hair, and some unfortunate layers and highlights in the early aughts. They remember when I was first starting to write poems, before I’d published my first book. That shared history means so much to me, that sometimes I get a little melancholy when I make new friends. I feel lucky to still be finding kindred spirits at this time in my life, but it’s hard not to feel like we’ve missed out on a lot. They can’t know everyone I’ve already been, and I can’t know everyone they’ve already been.

Today’s poem reads to me like a love poem, a tribute, to a long friendship. It reminds me that part of how we know ourselves is through the people who know us best, and who have loved us through our changes.

Crossing the Line
by E. Ethelbert Miller

for Maria

Sitting across the table from you
I think back to when our friendship
came down from the mountains.
It was a cold day and the miners
had not left for work.

You break a cookie in half like bread
and this sharing is what we both now need.
That which breaks into crumbs are memories.
Your gray hair cut short and you ask if I notice.

How can I tell you that Bolivia will always be 
beautiful and everything I notice is you
and yes is you. Our napkins folded in our hands.
Folded as if our meeting now is prayer.

Did I ever tell you that your eyes are a map
and I would lose myself if you ever turned away

"Crossing the Line" by E. Ethelbert Miller. Used by permission of the poet.