The tincture I made last summer from my grandmother’s transplanted phlox.
The immediate and total time travel back to the antique shop where the two of us picked out a glittering ring.
The quiet of the house beneath the piano keys, hammers gently striking taught wire.
Is all music, all feeling the result of collision?
I said that surely if I’d known how hard it was going to be, I’d have chosen something else. But the cards say Fate, and if it wasn’t this path then surely it would have been another that brought me exactly here, now.
Is there delight in grief? There is always delight in listening, in truly looking, in being a small animal that exists, just like everything else, in the unfair but beautiful world all around you.
This isn’t the end of things, because this isn’t a story. It’s active and alive, not a recollection. So This, whatever This is, is the point. This is the delight– because I’m awake for it.