Is there any sound more comforting at the end of a long, hard day than the voice of an old friend? Any balm more curative than the companionship of someone who’ll listen without judgment to even the worst of your missteps? Someone who’ll hold the platitudes and offer a hand instead when life gets impossibly hard? Who makes the simplest outings fun and understands even the most ridiculous of your jokes?

It was an old friend who sent me this Freya Manfred poem. At least I think of her as an old friend. I suppose that’s not technically true, as I’ve only known her for a handful of years. But is it the quantity of years that makes a friendship “old”? Or the quantity of generosity, affection, and care?

Today I celebrate old friends of all sorts and thank them each and every one for making life so much more worth living.

Old Friends

by Freya Manfred

Old friends are a steady spring rain,
or late summer sunshine edging into fall,
or frosted leaves along a snowy path—
a voice for all seasons saying, I know you.
The older I grow, the more I fear I'll lose my old friends,
as if too many years have scrolled by
since the day we sprang forth, seeking each other.

Old friend, I knew you before we met.
I saw you at the window of my soul—
I heard you in the steady millstone of my heart
grinding grain for our daily bread.
You are sedimentary, rock-solid cousin earth,
where I stand firmly, astonished by your grace and truth.
And gratitude comes to me and says:

"Tell me anything and I will listen.
Ask me anything, and I will answer you."