I lay awake in the heat and watch the shadows move. Branches of Oak. I listen to the sound of a truck pass. A helicopter overhead. The cicadas close. I consider how my body feels as inch towards older. The things I ought to do. How to be a person here, and still be there. How I like this, but want that. How grief is universal but deeply personal. How I love you all electric. How we sparkle (mostly) everyday. How we light up in the same way. But differently. How balance doesn’t exist here. How we ebb and flow.
Do you remember when we picked handfulls of blackberries? How we sat in the soft grass by the spring creek. How we touched.
Today. Walking away from someone. Down the stairs. Fat tears letting go of the idea of something and walking into nothing else. No one likes the uncomfortable space of emptiness. May we be empty often. May we soften at the edges, so when we touch it’s gentle. When we collide it feels like we’re yielding. We move like watercolours through the lake.
Someone’s handwriting on an old box catches me off guard. “Little Plates.” It states quietly, “Misc.” What do you still carry with you I wonder, as I sift through a decade of things. What do we keep and what do we leave behind?
I hear her stir in the night. Soft curls in a strip of light. Small body turning. Being here is all that matters. Goodnight cat. Goodnight trees. Goodnight moon.