Letter to Sea Star

Little Sea,The summer after my second year of teaching, we took off in the Toyota Previa you bought from that friend of yours—with its 200,000 miles on it to start—and we drove west, leaving the men we’d loved behind and filling those aching holes with sky.
I was always the early riser, outcome-oriented and impatient.  You were the slow mover, the poster child for “It’s about the journey, not the destination.”  Sometimes we crowded one another, made one another crazy with waiting or rushing, but most of the time we just talked out of the well of our history the way sisters do.
We got to the Uintas, where I’d fallen in love three years before, and I teared up because he was moving his furniture out of our apartment that day.  You drove me into the Salt Flats, where we’d never been before—then the Sierra Nevadas, then the San Francisco Bay.  All the while, we spoke our histories and our hopes.

That summer, forward was a thrilling and terrifying mystery for me.  I didn’t know what there could be beyond here.  You were exactly the person I needed then, the one person who could put my future in context.  You invoked our family’s stories and emboldened me to push onward into the mystery.

Your sea

The synchrobloggers are asking (or answering)  the age-old question:  Are we there yet?

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