On The Things That Never Change
I tell her about love, music, how strange it is to go home and notice how much older my parents have gotten. To look back at photos and realize how much I’ve aged.
My dear friend Veda is visiting this week. She got in today, serendipitously just in time for the album release festival happening tomorrow. She arrived tired, fresh off her early morning flight, her hair longer than I remember.
A new version of Veda has arrived. One two years older than the one I knew throughout our college years together. The two of us would pull all-nighters, always ready for anything. An invite, and we were there. We’d spend evenings chatting about our dreams and how we were going to live them out together—me playing stages around the world, and her tour managing it all.
We’ve naturally distanced a bit. Her in Minnesota, me in New York. I get texts from her filled with so many colorful love emojis that I become impressed by the amount of pixels a phone screen can project. She’s here now, sleeping, but we chatted for a moment before she collapsed.
She tells me about how her family has changed, the jobs she’s worked, how much has shifted since school. I tell her about love, music, how strange it is to go home and notice how much older my parents have gotten. To look back at photos and realize how much I’ve aged.
I tell her what I need to get done today, outlining the things I need to prep for tomorrow. She says, “You’re still the same ambitious go-getter, aren’t you?”
Yes, Veda, yes. I don’t think that will ever waver.
She’s still the calming, beautiful, ever-glowing girl I met and hoped to be friends with. Some things change. Some things stay the same.
Lovely. May your precious friendship endure.