I am sitting in the Colorado kitchen of dear old college friend. Sipping coffee out of a girl scout mug she must’ve picked up when the kids were small. They’re no longer scouts or band kids or swim teamers. But the light spilling across the worn grain of the oak flooring in this kitchen reflect the many early mornings where my friend poured cereal into bowls and baked birthday cakes. This house, like my friend, is showing some age, but has awakened this morning smiling at the promise of a new day. Zhittya tryvae. Life goes on.