Mended Fences

(The bar is quiet, winter is here and Mondays are black, rainy. My fingers get pruny with an unruly manuscript: I believe somewhere in here something burns, something smolders but it's still just out of my reach and I am at a point now where I can taste it on my tongue, the addiction is a gift. I have let you go now, I have let go of everything that dragged heavy stones through my chest and it's hard to remember who I am without them. The last time I saw my grandmother, she did not know who I was and still I carry those days like a treasure: death is not a punishment for those of us who remain, it is a roundabout gift. I wonder if I've made all the wrong choices but I know I made at least one or two right ones and maybe that's a batting average to admire, in the end. Tonight I sat at my usual corner table in a bar that feels like home, and swam in magic until I forgot the time, forgot my worries, knew only this story. If I do nothing else with my life but give myself the gift of this space, perhaps I will still have done enough. The last time I saw my grandmother was only the last time, and I had a lifetime of moments before that, if you are sad now, please know that you will not always be, please know that sometimes our boulders turn into balloons and though you will be lost when your feet leave the solid ground, the air is only a
new map
to learn.)