R-E-S-P-E-C-T

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Lyn and I have been walking buddies for decades. In near-frozen sleet or sweltering heat, we set our alarms for 6AM and meet on the sidewalk between our houses for 6000 steps and a chance to empty our hearts. Over the years, we have given our walk-talks a rather uninviting name—vomiting. At our opening step towards the southern end of Long Island, the one of us in most need to unpack her woes says, “I’m vomiting first,” and begins her story. The other listens; (listening by the female definition is softly agreeing and/or giving stern advice.) The vomitor gets her say all the way to the county line or as we call it, “Ji-Soo’s block.” But at the turn north towards home, the other gets to vomit her woes.

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