Puddles

She sits by my side, follows my day with careful nudges and wise commentary from three thousand miles away; I am awash with gratitude at 14 years of friendship, how it feels like she sits in my living room. Do you know I can still hear my grandmother laughing, sometimes -- when I most need it -- it's like fireworks in my chest.

The day drags on slowly and rushes somehow in a flurry of neglected To-do lists: the bathtub has never been cleaner. I found your socks in the laundry, I found a dandelion along the river, I stopped to pick it up and ran the rest of the way home with it in my line of sight. When I forget to breathe, the ice grips my lungs and I still haven't called my dentist, but when I remember to stare directly into the sun, I remember all the things I know to be true and my back straightens, a smile builds from my solar plexus. The words all tumble out at random, and I forgive them: I believe the cherry blossoms will bloom again and I will be here when they do.