Saturday morning chaos over burned pancakes and missing shoes, there are appointments across the river and an ache splitting your head, did we order too many cocktails last night because the normalcy felt like a gift? It's too late to do anything about it now.
The city beckons me with returns. Speaks of moves and forward momentum. Speaks of spring. A year ago how we were tethered to our fears, to our ideas of temporarily arrested momentum, that soon everything would resume again. Now every step forward is hard earned, is unearthed through digging with calloused hands. They sat waxing over last call expressing gratitudes for all the wonders they'd been afforded in the past year and you couldn't speak for all that you'd lost, all that you had not gained.
But am I not here, too? Do I not live, still, and see the daffodils come forth from the earth? Do I not feel the sunlight on my face? My skin is scarred, yes, my spirit bruised. But I am here.
Perhaps that is good enough.
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