The air inside the market carried the scent of yeast and something faintly floral. Coastal fog clung to the redwoods, but here the light through salt-hazed windows came in warm, settling over bins of produce and jars of honey. The space, built from reclaimed cedar, felt worn in the right places. Underfoot, the floorboards creaked in a steady rhythm beneath the low hum of the coolers. People moved through the narrow aisles unhurriedly, pausing, greeting one another.
Hannah stood by a crate of heirloom artichokes, turning one over in her hands before setting it back. Her long dark hair hung in curls, a canvas bag slipping down her shoulder. She glanced from table to table without urgency, as if she hadn’t decided what she’d come for yet.
“Morning, Hannah.”
She looked up. “Jenn—hi.”
Jennifer shifted her basket to her other hand. “Glad the fundraiser’s done. We made enough for the year.” Her face relaxed. “You coming to the gallery Friday? They’re showing some of the younger potters.”
“I think so,” Hannah said. She adjusted her bag, her fingers resting on the strap. “I could use it. I’ve been a little… adrift.”
Jennifer watched her gaze move toward the entrance, caught by some distant sound outside. The stillness between them deepened.
Hannah reached for a bunch of lilacs from a nearby bucket, brushing her thumb along the stems. “I heard about Margot. A couple days ago.”
Jennifer’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
Hannah nodded, still looking at the flowers. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Margot had moved as if she were still working marble, her hands remembering the weight of tools even when they were empty. Her silver hair pulled back, dust settled into her apron. The first time Hannah visited her studio, she found her standing over a half-formed piece. Margot didn’t look up right away. When she finally spoke, she gave voice to something already forming: The thing you keep almost saying – that’s what should not go unsaid.
“I keep coming back to one thing,” Hannah continued. “I never told her how much she meant to me.”
Jennifer leaned lightly against the display beside them. “You were close. I’m sure she knew.”
“Maybe.” Hannah set the lilacs down, then picked them up again. “I didn’t feel confused about our friendship, as unconventional as it was – as far apart in age as we were. She was eighty-three, you know? And it didn’t matter to me what you’d call it. But I could feel the pressure sometimes – like other people needed it to be something I could explain in labels they understood.”
A moment passed.
“I never thought that had anything to do with my not telling her how important she was in my life. But I didn’t tell her. So I keep wondering.”
Jennifer reached out and squeezed her arm, letting the touch speak for her.
The low whir of a coffee grinder started up somewhere in the back. Someone laughed nearby. Hannah exhaled and placed the lilacs gently into her basket.
“I used to bring her these,” she said. “She never made a big deal of it – just put them in a jar on the kitchen sill. Once I came in and the old ones were still there, completely dried out. She said she liked them just as well that way. They last longer if you let them change.”
Jennifer smiled. “That sounds like her.”
They lingered, then Jennifer met Hannah’s eyes. “I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “I’ll be there.”
Jennifer gave her a knowing hug and moved on down the aisle.
Hannah continued through the market, adding a loaf of bread to her basket, a few apples. Near the back, she watched an older man reach for an item on a high shelf while a younger woman stepped in to hand it to him. They exchanged a few words, then went their separate ways.
At the register she set her basket down, the lilacs on top.
My Own Experience
I’ve known that kind of closeness before – three times – each with someone many decades older than I.
There was my mother’s friend, outspoken and a wonderful listener, who made space in a conversation the way good rooms do – you could move around in it.
There was an Indian engineer with the heart of a metaphysician. In my early 20s he helped me find my footing without ever suggesting I lacked it and introduced me to life-changing perspectives from the philosophies of his ancient culture.
And there was a Japanese Hawaiian kupuna who showed me aloha in its truest sense when I first arrived as a newcomer to the islands. He had a gift for saying the necessary thing once, and leaving it there.
I loved all three.
In none of these cases did I experience the relationship as unusual. The discomfort came from others who couldn’t place what they were seeing, whose unease became a pressure to explain what had never needed explaining. I tried, for a while, but the explanations were always reductive.
Hannah said it was unconventional. I didn’t experience mine that way. I knew what I felt, and I said it. She didn’t.
I’ve been trying to understand why.
Your Thoughts:
Have you had friends many years older or younger than you? How did those friendships develop? Do you think they were unconventional?
