Ten Thousand Words

It’s easy to lose track of time. Maybe it’s just something I’ve gotten particularly good at. It’s not unusual for me to question my choices now and again. I go over every permutation and combination I can imagine, searching for an alternative path—different decisions that could have led me somewhere else, to a place where I’d be better off, happier, stronger, or where the world might be better in some small way.

Every time I’ve had these doubts, you’ve reminded me that all those choices have made me who I am today. They’ve defined every aspect of me more than anyone else ever could—the good, the bad, and the ugly. I still haven’t figured out whether the ledger is in the black, but I do know that I’m a better man, a better human being, than I was when we first met.

You, on the other hand, have always been, to me, exactly what you were all those years ago: a beacon. Like a lighthouse guiding lost ships to shore. Like the sound of prayer bells and birdsong, reminding us to be grateful for all that’s good in this world.

I could probably think of a thousand ways to describe what you are to me, and write ten thousand words to express how much you mean to me, and yet I’d feel it still isn’t enough.

For years, I’ve been planning to visit, looking for a reason to “drop by” and “say hello.” But it never really worked out. Something else always got in the way—timing, circumstances, or the excuses we made out of fear and anxiety from not having seen one another for so long.

So, instead of ten thousand words, there’s one that feels just right. One word that keeps this wandering nomad from losing his mind and perfectly captures what you are to me:

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