A returned home from coaching and we gathered in the kitchen: windows open, toaster toasting sweet potatoes, and eggs in the frying pan. Suddenly, a hullabaloo! And I realize it’s coming from A’s mouth; he’s yelling out he window with great enthusiasm!
It seems we have a friend in the neighborhood after all. The chief of the police station lives right down the row; A coaches her and her comrades every Wednesday afternoon.
A few minutes later I find myself on the shared balcony overlooking the pool, declining a beer while attempting to hide behind my sweet and explainably shy little boy (sadly, I don’t think I can give myself the excuse of stranger danger.) My own social anxiety is overwhelming. It’s been over a year since I’ve hung out in casual company.
I stumble through conversation and light upon the fact that the chief attended my high school! Good old Radford. We didn’t bond over it too much (it was so changed between the years we each attended) but it certainly brought me back to those idyllic days of beaches and surfing and sand on my shoes and salt in my hair and sun on my skin. And I know someone else close by “gets” it. It’s a comfort to my lonely soul.