I don’t know why
The trees grow so tall
And I don’t know why
I don’t know anything at all
But if there were no music
Then I would not get through
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do
— the prophet colvin

“Am I the only friend you have who loves trees?” Mo asks.

She has vetoed my table at the microbrewery in favor of the long row facing the window, giving her a view of the tree across the street next to the hostel. She asks if I’m cold sitting there. I lie and say no. She gazes out contentedly.

It’s been one of those days. We had set out for the Canyon del Grande to shoot photos of Rudolph and the Rubber Duck Piñata, but ended up in Flagstaff instead. We always end up in Flagstaff instead.

We ran on the Buffalo Trail. I am STILL yet to run into Sara Hall or Jim Walmsley or any of the elites who live and train here. I constantly practice my nonchalant nod in case they go by, but today it’s limited to a like-minded group of slow but earnest runners, bundled up against the piercing wind as we go along the magical dirt loop. “This is such a great trail,” Mo says. “We MUST move here.” We say that every time we visit. And still, we haven’t. Maybe.

It’s cold, which means constant visits to coffee shops. As opposed to when we’re here when it’s warm, which means constant visits to coffee shops. Macy’s is declared the official winner of the coffee-offee. They have taken down the bulletin board outside that we used to constantly vandalize. I pretend we’re not the reason.

I ask Mo why the thing I’m eating is called coffee cake. “Because you eat it while you drink coffee,” she says. Mo’s ass is very smart indeed. I point out I’m actually drinking water. She proceeds to eat the rest of the coffee cake, given that she IS drinking coffee. Note to self: Never ask that question again.

We make the Tour de Downtown, going in art galleries and the world’s greatest fudge store, and end up at Beaver Street, where we sit now. She can’t decide between my beer and hers, so she drinks both. We sit as day turns into night and the trees become shadowy figures. It’s a good day.

Is she the only friend I have who loves trees? Yes, I tell her. But then, you’re the only friend I have.

But then, one’s just right. It’s all a matter of finding the right one.

I’m a lucky guy.

Except for my beer and coffee cake maybe …

About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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