Fire. Whiskey. Laughter. Dogs.

Emily and I met freshman year of high school. Raised by missionaries in Paris, she came to live with her grandparents for a year to discover what American high school was like. Being international made her instantly cooler and more mysterious than those of us born and raised in the one-stoplight town. I don’t remember much about our early friendship, just that it existed. I don’t remember how or why we stayed in touch. It was as if our orbits were constantly overlapping in just enough of a way to keep the other familiar. Emily went to college in Chicago. She studied photography, and of course she’s brilliantly talented. I kept up with her portfolio, partly as an old friend but mostly as a fan. Her work is stunning. Quietly, I was proud of my friend.

In 2011, I managed to adopt a knocked-up dog. In a panic to try to find potential adopters for the pups, I created a Facebook group for people to follow the misadventures of the six little bundles of headache. Emily was an early subscriber. She’d eventually adopt the last-born; the rabble rouser with the tawny eyepatch and a penchant for getting into things. Jack (now Gil) was off to live in Manhattan, to have his photogenic mug in beautifully crafted images, to be adored in artistry.

In 2012, Instagram told me Emily was back in Virginia, visiting her grandparents. We cautiously confessed our mutual boredom and decided that a doggy play date was an order. We both wondered if Patsy Cline and Gil would remember their bond; if we’d remember ours. We stood in the snow with steaming mugs of hot toddies, throwing sticks for Gil to chase, yelling at Patsy to return.

Two days later we met for drinks at literally the only bar in town. We were two of the last to leave. We laughed, we spoke candidly. Emily was even cooler than I remembered. There is a specific breath that comes from the realization of connection. It starts somewhere deep, as if it must snake through the bedrock of our core, through the cracks that our choices have formed, through the aquifers tainted by expectation, to finally bubble up, pure and childlike. A friend!

I had no new years plans. I didn’t even know if I’d stay in Virginia or head back to Asheville; nothing was materializing in either locale. Emily texted; she was still in town. We made plans.
We made phrases. 

Fire.
Whiskey.
Laughter.
Dogs.

In the field near my father’s house is a long-standing firepit. I dug out the snow and began to pile on the brush. It only took a single match.
Emily arrived with smores and rye whiskey.
We sat in our camp chairs next to the roaring fire, watching the sparks as they disappeared into the darkness of a clouded night. We drank our rye out of old jelly jars, grabbing the snow around us to use as ice. We whittled marshmallow sticks out of lilac branches. We spoke of heartache and triumph; of what was and what we hope will be. We talked of collaborations.
We almost missed midnight.
Somewhere nearby a young child yelled out “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and we rapturously replied in return. Fireworks echoed off the mountains; our sparks floated ever higher.

Kismet. As if God had willed it. 
Fortune: both luck and wealth.
The old is new.