Woodstock

During a post dinner, let's open another bottle of wine, late night conversation

we hatched a plan to take a road trip, the following Friday, to Woodstock.

Our history takes us way back to Catholic elementary school.

Blue plaid uniforms, slumber parties, and school yard antics.

Our friendship is more like a sisterhood.  

The next morning, in a more lucid state, we didn't waiver on our plan,

nor did we change our minds mid-week.

Another friend, whom we met in our 20s in NYC,

had recently moved to Woodstock, a place she had been frequenting for decades.

Her entrepreneurial spirit had been tugging her towards change.

Several months ago she left the East Village,

and made the Ulster County town her permanent home.

We wanted to see the new store she opened along a stream that traverses Main Street.

Distracted by stories, and each other's company, we drove an hour out of our way.

Unfazed, we turned around.  It's about the journey, anyway.

We were giddy the entire day.

Bursts of uncontrollable laughter, and talking all at once

made us unsuitable for public places.

We switched our lunch order to go so we could fall off chairs

 and clutch our stomachs in private.

Some days are magical;
the perfect alchemy of people, time and place.

This was one of those days.