Walkabout

Story by Terri Belford

We met at the mailbox when we were both new mothers, and walked our babies in strollers for hours, commiserating about sleepless nights and napless days.

When the kids started school, we’d meet at the bus stop and run five miles every morning before we each headed off to work. On the uphill sprints, the only sound was the pounding of our soles and heavy breaths. Downhill we compared notes on teachers, homework and pediatricians. Over the years, our conversations turned to books, art and her cheating husband.

The kids went off to college and I moved out of state. We’d meet for hikes in the red rocks or camping in the redwoods.

In our fifties, we both left marriages and lost fathers. We helped each other navigate menopause and grief on long beach walks.

She retired at sixty-two and visited often. Sometimes we’d sit together in silence, but mostly we walked and talked.

Now in our seventies, we call on birthdays, but the deep connections happened on the trails. We talk about achy joints, hair loss, memory loss and missing our mothers, who are both gone now. We share dreams not yet fulfilled and trepidation about aging. Mostly though, we reminisce and count ourselves fortunate to have had a friendship that’s spanned decades.