Closer to Fine

And then, here it is. The day you’ve dreaded, when all the loose ends of your vagabond life must be tied together, stowed nearly away and paid for with money you have no idea how you’ll manage to find. Moments of your youth appear in boxes, neatly wrapped crystal the stories of which you’ve been hearing for years, and that vase is only for light pink carnations in the spring. I devour it whole, every last thread that weaves me into a family tree, that tells me a story into which I fit. I forgot, for a while, who I was.

But we sat last night on their couch, snuggled tight into the stories of our loyalty, and I remember: they gave me family, when I had none. When I ran, they waited patiently on the shore and pulled me in when I washed up, ragged and lost and hungry, they did not ask questions. And here we were, on a couch in a town I know by heart, the late night light with midsummer anticipation, weaving our tales again like we do not exist without these decades in our skin. I slept well then.

Perhaps all these things will one day burn to the ground. But the family you choose, and which chooses you, that is what you came for, even when
you didn’t know.