I had dinner with a special group of people last night in a raucous restaurant, people who have become family over the years. Some of us connected to each other in this city because of the fact that we didn’t have family near, some of our group being the ones who do, but who accepted us as family initially because they supported the military but eventually because we all fell in love with each other.
I know, sounds odd, that particular use of the word love.
Yet we’ve left many such “friends who became family” throughout my husband’s career.
I have a very established routine in the morning.
My husband rises early, feeds and walks the dog, and makes the coffee while I’m still trying to convince myself to open my eyes to think about starting my day. Eventually I venture downstairs, pour my coffee, and settle into the couch with my friends from Good Morning America, hoping said husband doesn’t try to talk to me until that cup of coffee is gone.
It’s a rare occurrence when I’m up early enough to have already walked the dog by the time the sun has crested the tree line near my home but that’s exactly what happened this past week when my dog-walker/coffee-maker was gone on a business trip.
This was my reward as I headed back down the driveway with Xav.