On a day much like any other, a woman went on a walk.

She briskly made her way down the avenue, smiling at the blooming roses she passed. The grass was a polished green, dew glistening like diamonds against the morning sun. She closed her eyes to listen to the birds. She opened them, squinting against the glow of the day. The world seemed brighter, her steps lighter, and her grin turned into a laugh.

Just as so, morning begat evening and the teapot's whistle echoed throughout the house. She quickly made her way to the stove to pour it into a gilded teacup. The liquid was a warm, deep bronze. It tasted sweet enough to make her melt. The aroma softened her face and relaxed her to the bone.

With the coming evening, the frogs inherited the day's song and made a jubilee with the crickets. Sitting down on her creaking rocking chair, she couldn't help but notice a shrouded figure standing beside her.

He was silent and still. Tall and lanky. The sounds around her seemed to soften, and the evening sunset turned to dusk. He nodded her way, stoic in his countenance.

She smiled at him, loving and tender. Rising from her chair, she knew it was time to retire. Before she left, a gentle touch to his arm signaled her farewell.

He watched her leave, motionless and observing. As soon as her patio door shut and the lights were turned off, he left to go about his business.

The steps he took were precise and measured. He contemplated, watched, and listened. The sounds of the night quieted until the air was laden with silence, one that weighed his anxiety down to torpor. In his languid gait he found peace.

He sighed, his walk progressing much like the other night. Looking up, he slowed his long gait to pause by a familiar rose bush. Leaning close, he softly inhaled the sohpisticated scent. The aroma brought him a memory of a dream long forgotten, tucked far away. Perhaps it was because she loved this rose bush. And this made perfect sense to him. But, oh! What perfection it was to feel the warmth that spread in his chest! He pulled away in haste.

With a perfunctory nod, and a good yank to straighten his jacket he stepped off once again walking the course. As he neared his destination, the very home he started from, the sun dawned and she welcomed him home, a golden herald with open arms.

This night ended like any other as he finished his walk. Another morning craned impatiently over the horizon. But this moment, the moment lost between worlds, between day and night, was quite literally magic. In these seconds he also lost his senses, much like the woman did years ago. Looking into each other's eyes, they lived a thousands lives before the morning so rudely intervened.

Though the day bekoned her, as the night did for him, the permanence of the emotion they carried as they walked their separate ways filled their hearts with tenacity. Yet again, during the twilight, they would surely meet again. And perhaps this time he'd finally tell her the thoughts he had on his mind.

All I can do is smile and stare at my friend as she picks up a hair tie and fiddles with it in her right hand. Her left hand rakes through her cancer-scarred scalp as new, magic hair grows back at a rapid rate. Within seconds, her lush mane that disappeared months ago is back at full glory. Now she’s back to being the fierce lionness I always knew her as.

With a small smile on her lips, she draws the new hair back into a long ponytail. She whips a few times, feeling the hair hit against her ears and neck. Perfect.

Next, she picks up the box of new shoes. I recognize the brand. They went out of business around a decade ago. Any shoe survivors became worth a fortune. My friend didn’t care about that. Carefully, she removed the out-of-style pumps from the box. There’s a sticky-note on the back of the left pump. With a delicate touch, she removes the note, reads it, and quickly begins to weep. I rush to her and squeeze her in a tight hug.

On the note was the words: “Get a little crazy, baby girl” in soft, cursive handwriting. My friend used to have a pair of pumps just like those--except they weren’t new. They had been worn only once by her mother on her 1983 prom. Unfortunately, during freshman year, she passed away. And left my friend those pumps to wear on her own prom--now only a year away. However, they were accidentally destroyed in a recent house fire.

But now, they were back exactly the way they were before she lost them.

Finally, my friend picked up her new iphone. Gleefully, she texted me--even though I was right beside her.

Look what I got! She typed.

I can see. I responded.

She pulled me into another hug. I gotta admit, texting is a lot between that using that landline she called me on. My friend briefly scrolled through her contacts. Only her dad and me were in it. I know why.

Because I’m the only one who would understand the meaning of such mundane things.