I held a gourmet box of pastries as I walked behind my family to the front door of the home we were visiting. It was a lunch invite, a once a year thing we did. We hugged, caught up on the year that was, ate and, bid byes until the next year. I walked back to the car with trays of lasagna, green beans and a box of carrot cake.
“This is our tradition, right?” she asked as we left.
It was. A nascent one at that, just three years in the making.
I met Ms. C and Mr. R as a new bride when I moved to America. He was my husband’s manager at work and a friend outside work. She frequented the quaint cafe next door to the bank where I worked as a teller. We would get lunch sometimes. She would pop into the bank to say hello and brighten my day. Over the years, they were a fixture at any event at home that was meant for friends and family. Navarathis, grihapraveshams, ayush homams, seemanthams and condolences. She was from the southern US, he from the north. Decades separated us in age. We traded stories of our childhood for their native experiences in our adopted country. Each conversation was easy, interesting and sometimes, profound.
They have watched us grow and watched our children grow. They know the lore. They are part of the lore.
Tonight at dinner, I was telling my kids about how long we have known them and found myself tearing up. I often think I have not made any meaningful relationships. I have acquaintances, people I know, people who know me. A lot of the people in my life also follow me online and are therefore privy to a lot of things in my life. However, it is one way. I rarely get to catch up with people or stay on top of what is happening in their lives. Today though, I realized that time and distance don’t really matter when connections stretch over decades. Once a year is good enough to sustain and nurture things that have strong roots. This connection though, feels destined.
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