Writing brings together my loose ends, ties them into a hopeful package. I hold the parcel in my hands, and lovingly give it to you.
You understand these fragments. You have questions and loose ends of your own.
Like that time you pedaled so hard you flew, the wind stinging your eyes. What if you never turned back?
The time you wanted to kiss those baby-soft lips, but you froze, a million miles you wouldn’t cross.
That day alone in the house when you sang at the top of your lungs, because the leaves were falling, and your hopes were rising.
Then spring came, wet and green. You didn’t understand why she left, but it didn’t hurt so much now.
In bed half-asleep with the fan spinning overhead, and the world spinning outside, and you are at the calm center. You don’t remember your name.
Many people appear, so many faces. Some come toward you, then abruptly turn away. Others travel with you a little while, then say they have to leave. One skips down the path with you, holding your hand as you laugh, and never lets you go.
They are all here, they weave in and out of your dreams. They come to the surface and tell you true things, and you turn on the light to write them down.