You lose track again, you falter and fall, feel a hundred miles behind, but when at last you get to sit down and write, it's like the weight of the world falls off your hips, you are light as a feather, you are fine.
She writes to say his best friend died, and the way your little east village family rallies could warm the coldest of hearts. You tell him you will plant yourself at the usual bar, will be there from open to close, and whatever he might need from that space will be there waiting for him. Yeah maybe one drink would be good, he says.
I whispered words into the rain last night that I hadn't heard myself say in so long. Let my heart beat to a rhythm so long missing that it felt rusty at the return, and I stumbled as it skipped a few beats. I don't know yet if these castles in the sky are built of brick or just the lightest of clouds, but perhaps I don't have to know yet.
Perhaps grace is the space we allow ourselves for not knowing. Perhaps grace is sitting at the regular bar from open to close and whenever we are ready for a drink, there is someone there to drink it with.
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