All morning recalling early spring fishing on Bronson Brook in the 1970s and wondering: is it possible to be that quiet and happy again. All of us are complicit in possibility. And yet.
Last night - even though you were in tears - I nearly laughed talking so much about prayer. Years of nicknames take their toll indeed. Somewhere there is a record, somewhere your name is not a secret.
Snow melt, horses, dirty mittens. The folds about her eyes remind me of Nana and I want to take her in my arms and promise she won't die lonely. If you weren't married . . .
The only wound you need to heal is the idea that there are wounds at all. I woke to a river of light. Thank you for sharing your dream of dead dogs, much lamented but not - we both agree - actually gone.
We are all loving, all the time, and need only remember it. Lost is as lost does. Also, Leviticus is no longer an excuse.
Twice now I have been asked to recall my many years in Van Deiman's land. A sentence is like a map and a map is not the territory and so you have to ask: what now? Your penalty is mine as well.
It's okay, or it's going to be. I wake at night no longer alone, my smile alleluia.
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