It's Friday night.
Tony is absorbed in a computer problem and informs me he can't go on a bike ride; but he encourages me to go. When I pass his office, I share, out of habit, some piece of trivia, a thought, interrupting his flow. When I ponder where to ride, he makes a suggestion. It's time to bike and leave him to work.
I have come to love biking in the evening, especially when we, or just me, makes it home just before darkness comes to call. It is the winding down time, the giving in, the goodnight to nature or a day that not only took away, but generously gave.
The day gave four hours of time with colleagues. In preparation for the new school year, we discussed, listened, and learned from one another. Laughter reigned among these witty, clever people. Those lucky students dreading a new school year don't know how lucky they are.
During the seminar lunch break, I hopped in the car, hurried to the church and self-consciously entered the chapel. I was late for the funeral. The sobriety of sorrow took away the lightness of the previous hours, but gave me tears when my dear old friend said, "You came." He didn't know I had missed half of his beloved's funeral, and I chided myself for not attending the entire service. But the day gave back when it reminded that juggling obligations was caring.
The day subtracts minutes, hours, but gives again and again with the renewal of each day, operating with such consistency, we never need doubt a new day will come until it finally and completely does not.
At the end of a hike, Nikki says, "See you tomorrow."
It startles me, though it shouldn't. The surety of it is guaranteed. Until it is not.