Some days I dream of crawling into this bed, the one with the bright flowers made for reminding me of the Spring to come, the bulbs we planted in October, breaking open. Of life. Of joy. Of this thanksgiving.
And the bed is covered in pages, in words that nearly hum from the covers like the dream I had once when I was 13, leaning over the bed and picking up one of the cassette tapes strewn on the floor, pressing it directly to my ear and hearing it sing to me: Do you remember the songs that saved your life? And the songs that made you cry?
So I go still at night after the day of talking and listening, of receiving so much of those who give of themselves in a language we use to explain, to comfort, to confront, and to heal. Love must shatter us.
The little girl with pretend pliers in her hand, turning the screws on her three-wheeler: "Let's give it a whirl. See if it runs."
The dark hallway on the way to my office: as I pass, I put my fingers to my lips, sign thank you. Fear runs from gratitude.
And tonight, I'll open the books and listen hard with them pressed directly to the ear of my heart: Shattering. Because I need these directions to see if it runs.