Andy and I are walking up Fryman canyon. It’s a splendid morning, the mountains are clearly wrinkled across the verdant valley, echoing our own slowly aging faces. This is Sunday in the park sans George in my LA circa 2011.
“This is a perfect moment,” I say, stopping to appreciate the view. “Our kids haven’t yet left and my parents are still alive, I’m halfway up this hill with you…”
“It is a perfect moment,” she says as we walk on together. I grow a tiny bit sad, “But it’s not your perfect moment—your parents have already passed and…”
“For me, every moment is a perfect moment,” Andy says, simply. I take this in.
“Then you’re happy and this truly is a perfect moment. And I’ve nothing to say.”
(except, perhaps, Namaste)