Another day, another sorrowful goodbye. I drag my heavy suitcase toward the bus, only to run into a man who loved me once. He drives me to the train station. I say, tell me everything that is new with you in seven minutes, but we don’t know which words are the right ones. I say, next year we will make more time. The spaces in between are eons.
In the early afternoon, the bride lost her words to say I do, but recovered later for a chaste kiss. The newly minted husband said she is the most impressive person he knows. Your old accent creeps back into the fold, but none of your old wounds open, none of the aches remind themselves in your bones. At the end of the night, just before the briefly dark August night turns, I swam out into the lake. Behind me, the twinkling lights of the dance floor, ahead only dark waves and bright stars. I don’t remember what was whispered into that moment, but I know I smiled despite myself. I know each wave was washed in gratitude.
It is possible to feel joy,
and only joy.
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