You know, I was sitting in the studio this morning sipping on a lukewarm cup of Sanka, watching the fog roll over the Kuskokwim, and I got to thinking about life—about the strange and beautiful way people show up on your trail. Some for a mile. Some for a moment. Some for the whole dusty, meandering ride.

Sometimes they’re lovers, sometimes strangers. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, they’re a three-year-old boy with grass-stained knees and peanut butter on his face, asking questions like: “Why are clouds slow?” or “Do bears sleep in the sky?”

And maybe you’ve got things to do—grown-up things, important things. But you stop. Because the way he looks at you, it’s like you’re the moon. And for a brief span of time, you are. You’re the entire universe, walking alongside him in his first tiny steps into this noisy, beautiful chaos we call life.

People walk with us. Sometimes they come in like thunderstorms, loud and brief and unforgettable. Others, like quiet fog—you don’t notice until they’re gone and suddenly the road’s not the same.

But that little boy? Maybe he doesn’t know who you are to him. Maybe you don’t either. But he puts his hand in yours, and for a little while, you walk the same path. You share the same rhythm. And in that shared rhythm, maybe you remember something you’d forgotten—how to laugh just because the sky is blue, or how to sit in the dirt and feel the wind as if it’s the first time.

Life doesn’t give you many guarantees. But it gives you people. Moments. Echoes.

So if someone’s walking beside you today—even a three-foot-tall philosopher with a crooked smile—slow down. Match their pace. The trail’s still there. The destination’s not going anywhere. But that moment?

That moment is everything.

Stay warm, Cicely.