“Wait. Go back,” Blair says, “because you were not in love and then you were. Say how that went.” She wants the messy part detangled and she knows I know exactly what happened. She can wait.
Sometimes the thing you do for the right reasons has the wrong results. You never know, when you love big and hard, exactly how the narrative will uncurl.
Better than you could ever imagine is always a possibility.
Making space for my still raw stories to play and have a life –beyond me arranging for you what I think you should think of me – is a risk every single time, but, these days I’m taking it.
I just eavesdropped on a man reading a letter to his friend on a tiny little plane, where the act of listening in can hardly be seen as inappropriate. We are seat belted co-captives for the next two hours and ten minutes. I can’t see him, but his voice carries.
I was learning to summon worth any time I’ve ever had to name myself instead of waiting for a title. Just like my mother. This week I was softly reminded of when my lessons began.
Taking out the taped up wooden box where my silver sleeps and opening it up last week made me woozy. It was too beautiful. Thanksgiving gave me the chance to put it to work, feeding people once more, but not before it took my breath away.