In the middle of a three day visit to you, we sat in the dark quiet having recounted the story of a long ago trip undertaken separately in youth, you know, with the intelligence of willful children.
The light at/through the window was very specific. The time elapsed was accounted for in our quiet and in our feeling. Restraint arose.
I mean what I mean is you went to Barcelona without a cent somehow.
I went from Eugene to New Orleans as a young blonde person, hitch-hiking.
We both 1) survived and 2) are telling each other the stories we’d ourselves forgotten.
And they now exist in the other’s head to be brought later to the ceremony.
We’d forgotten them because of the attempt to live and become expectations.
In the darkening yard, days later, after I’ve left you, I have both bees and monarch butterflies back from a brink.
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