She was there with us at the birth of my child. Beside me when I married — both times. She found us the house where we live, negotiated the purchase, and helped us move in. She bought us the coolest knife set you’ve ever seen, and I think of her whenever I chop vegetables. We are familial. She and I. Chosen and cultivated.
She phones me Monday and asks how everything is.
“I have to move refrigerators,” I say, “before we leave town, and I’m freaking out.”
I only had to tell her for it to be handled. Within the hour, her fiance arrives downtown in his truck, and 1.5 hours later the entire thing is done. New fridge installed, leveled, stocked. Old fridge recycled. As a perk, he fixes my sliding glass door.
And this is how it is, this life. You only have to say it’s hard for something else to happen. She got engaged this weekend. He managed to get her to the site of their first date, and she still didn’t guess. “We’d like you to officiate,” she tells me. “It’s the first thing we agreed about the wedding. That we want it to be you.”
I guess that’s what I’m telling you. We’re in this together, right? These ways we honor one another. These ways we celebrate our lives. Not just the grand things — the births and graduations, the marriages and new homes — but navigating the logistical worries of the everyday. There’s much to be said for the people who celebrate with you, but even more for the ones who help you fix your shit. When they’re the same people, dear god, you are a blessed motherfucker.