I picked up the phone and dialed the long distance number. The voice on the other end sounded cautious and frail. The friendship in my voice tried to assure the frightened girl that I meant her no harm. I asked her for her time and companionship, I told her my story of misspent youth, those words and thoughts lost to empty nights drowned in spirits most reckless and crude.

I listened to the pattern of my breath. I felt my chest rise and fall. I asked Loki to come sit on my lap and keep me company in the quiet of this night. I let the memories wash over me like rain, the fear and distress pass like the wind. My empty hands massaged the tightness in my feet. I counted each breath. Together with my regrets, we discussed the lessons to be learned, we gave thanks for this opportunity to forgive, and we asked for another opportunity to try again. I remember the words she said as the car warmed up and rain began to fall, “it’s when you dare to be powerful, that it is less and less important whether you are afraid.”

I remember the time she asked me to stand with her and watch the ocean. The weakness I felt, in my legs, in my heart, in my soul, challenged me to ask for her help, for her forgiveness, for her faith. I wondered if she knew where I was going and how I planned to get there. There was power in our silence, an assurance of purpose, place, and meaning. The stories we shared as children never prepared us for that moment of goodbye. Months later, she recalled that moment in a letter I received on a snowy day. The warmth of that summer day seemed more than a lifetime ago and I wondered if such stories were still true.