There’s measuring distance traveled by the miles/kilometres on a map, methods of transport and exotic forms of tummy distress incurred. There’s measuring distance traveled by those moments you saw those things you only ever thought you’d see in a travel agent’s window. There’s measuring distance traveled by remembering the faces of strangers who helped, who fed, who laughed and who stared without comprehension as you fumbled to find the words in their language for “do you have ibuprofen?”. Measured by the times you ended up with some odd smelling, mentholated liniment because you rubbed your arm thinking they’d understand you meant a rash instead of pointing at your backside where said rash actually resided.
Distance isn’t always a matter of ground covered. Sometimes the longest journeys are the ones we 
all take. That are measured in time: days, weeks, years. Sometimes it is measured in shared memories of celebrations, of anniversaries, of quiet moments.
Sometimes it is taking a trip home again. To say goodbye to a person who was there for those times. To remember with those who also remember. Who are there to say goodbye. The distance from here to there is a few hours by plane, a day by car, a lifetime by heart.
I’m from a flat place on the map. Where I live now there is much joking at how that’s the sort of place you can watch your dog run away for 3 days. How, from your front yard, you can see the town next to the next town. How everyone from there leans a bit due to 
life as a windbreak. But it isn’t flat: it rolls. There are hills, there are trees, there is so much to see that everywhere you look it’s different and it changes before your eyes.
It is a good place to watch yesterday walk away, join hands with her yesterday: young again and in love again. It is a good place to see eternity.
And to learn there are some distances that cannot be measured.
