The night before a visitor arrives is always a night of quiet, panicked, introspection. Especially when it's a visitor I've not seen in a while, and if it's someone whose opinion I trust.

Tomorrow, Colter arrives for a short visit. He's headed out east to attend a concert and putting in a side trip to Alabama as a bonus.

Mc and Mc
at Hillcrest, Little Rock, Arkansas, United States by domesticat.
(A picture of us from our last meeting if you're curious—come to think of it, I'm wearing that sweater right now. Full photoset is here.)

His is a friendship filled with memories of every color and shape. Colter, who let me sleep in his dorm room heaven knows how many times during my freshman year while I was distraught over another, floundering, friendship.

Funny, how all these years later I can look back and remember that one particular night. I cried, the big, sloppy tears of a college freshman. On a futon, of course—what set of collegiate memories are complete without a futon?

He would sit next to me, or on the floor, guitar always in his hands. Since then I've joked that Colter talks to his friends on two levels—through his words, and through the music that his hands idly play as accompaniment while he talks. His hands are always in motion. Always. People who say that I can't talk with my hands tied behind my back have never met him.

Even though it's dumb and remarkably insecure of me, I find myself wondering what he'll think of me. Most of the people who read this site are comfortable with my dual identities of 'domesticat' and 'Amy,' and don't think twice about it. Colter knew me when there wasn't anyone but 'Amy'—before I knew who I was, what I wanted to be.

He's actually known me for several years longer than my spouse, if that gives you any idea.

A scary thought—he knew me as a seriously muddled, confused, seventeen-year-old geekbrat. Yet here I am, a decently confident and amusing woman in her mid-twenties, wondering if he's still going to like the person who opens the front door for him tomorrow afternoon.

Side note: I found out this afternoon that I'm getting one of Noah's signed prints for Christmas. I'm thrilled—it's one of his Riverwalk prints. I pointed and squealed when I saw it. Of course, now I have to wait until Christmas. I really must learn to be patient.