You've said you'll come to visit us in the next month or so, and I know you will. But I don't know if the wildflowers will still be in bloom when you get here, and I wanted you to see. I spend a lot of time wanting you to see things, actually. And wanting to see them with you.
Mark and I talked about your visit, as we drove up the mountain, chattered contentedly away about what you'd want to do and what we'd want to do with you. We had Ella and Louis singing duets in the background, and I remember putting that CD in the weekend after you taught me to tango, having forgotten that it had some tangos on it when we could have used them. I remember you laughed at me for that. You do that a lot. It's never a mean laugh, always appreciative, and it makes me want to run around finding more things for you to appreciate and laugh at me about: look, mint brownies! Look, a book I wrote! Look, tiny little purple flowers! Look, look, look! See what I found for you? And then I can laugh, too. Karina and I were talking this week about friends who become part of who you are, and I thought of you, and of the way you laugh at me.
If the flowers are still blooming when you're out here, I'll point out the ones I know the names of, California poppies and yarrow and Chinese houses and lupines. I think that the Queen Anne's lace will be in bloom soon, but you'll know those, I'd guess. There are lots I don't know. I'd buy a field guide, but I think I'd rather just do what Mark and I did yesterday, go and look and enjoy. Mark may buy the field guide, though. Don't be surprised.
There has been a decided shortage of you in the last few years of my life. I'm hoping we can change that in not too long. I know you're coming, and I know the scheduling isn't entirely up to you at this point, but...hurry up. I miss you.