The season we walked together

It was early.

Crisp.
Open.
Bright.
Shining.

I recognized the face right away—
warm and bright,
familiar in a way that only time can soften.

My friend Cecily.
How many years had it been?

Too many to count easily,
but not enough to forget.
That morning, time folded itself up quietly and stepped aside
so we could be there—

We planned a morning hike along the Felsenegg ridge,
a path that winds above the city,
part of the Uetliberg range to the west.
The day ahead was full—at least, mine was—
so we took the very first funicular up the hillside,
the little car climbing through trees still holding on to morning mist.

The lake below was wrapped in a low layer of clouds,
like a blanket not yet pulled back.
Our conversation paused as we ascended..

We were the first on the ridge.
Just us and the morning.
The air was cool,
and the sunlight had just begun its slow stretch across the path.
We walked, chattering speeding through the years.
Birdsong here and there,
and our footsteps muffled by the dew laden grass.

Purple and white buds had begun to bloom,
pushing gently through old leaves and spring's fresh green.
It was one of those perfectly quiet,
uncomplicated moments
and you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Years had fell away on our walk—
not in the overwhelming kind of way,
but in the way that holds stories.
A fullness made of years passed and lives lived.
We shared memories,
talked about the struggles and the growth,
the things we didn’t expect but learned to hold anyway.

By the time we made our loop
and found breakfast—
tea, coffee, and slices of sweet Gotthelftorte—
our conversation had opened up like the blossoms along the trail.
We’d caught up to the now.
We'd looked just a little ahead,
into whatever shape the future might take.

Before we parted,
I pressed a small sachet of fresh lavender into Cecily’s hand—
a gift from my balcony garden.
It reminded her of something from her childhood,
and I hoped it would remind her, too, days and months from now
of the season we walked together.