Intent

“Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.”
-Tennessee Williams

We own a tent. It is a fine grand tent that we carried with us from California, and subsequently from Texas, and- I do not yet know the end of that story. It will come with us wherever we go next.
That is to say, I do believe the tent is fine, even though we have spent in it just part of an evening when we set it up four years ago in our friend's back yard.
She was most kind to offer us the use of her space to erect the tent- we wanted to know how it would be, and to get a little practice before venturing into the unforgiving wild.
We drove to our friend's house and pitched the tent just after twilight. Our companion wandered about, looked the tent over and deemed it an excellent one, exclaiming happily that we would have lovely times with it.
Spouse and I sat on the threshold; we gazed out and observed the stars that winked above Northern California. I think in the end we were more enamoured of our friend's delight and of the tall trees that circled her property than of anything related to the art of building a tent.
We made great plans for our travels but with one thing and another never found the right reasons to go on an expedition that required the tent.
In spite of the preceding being the single occasion in which we unfolded the enormous shelter, it is still a very dear memory- and it is why we will cling to it and keep the tent for as long as we are able, even in the whirlwind of cleaning and deconstructing that takes place weekly in our apartment.
Nothing, of course, stays the same: among other things our friend's beloved house is for sale and we are far, in so many different ways, from our impromptu camping ground. It might have been the world's briefest camping trip, and it is just a little reminiscence, but it cannot be surpassed, and we are fortunate.