11.18.22

When I look back, I still don't know how any of us have survived that kind of loss. The technicolor tree and its fruit. That garden. Guavas and oranges. Being here now. I lost my history. I am making history. I lost it all. I learned nothing. I gained everything. It lives on in us. Everyday it dies a little more as we go on. We remember a little less everyday what it felt like to be together like that. We'll never forget it. It carries on in me, in every little thing. The way I gather people. The way I try to hold them together. There's a garden in my heart. We lost each other. We found ourselves again. I'm arriving. I'm departing. There's no world after love but the rest of it. There's nothing left. There's everything to come. 

Why do I still come back to this. Sitting under this tree, alone. The people I loved, wandering somewhere else in the world. That first definitive ending of childhood. That place I became myself, only to be here now, still becoming myself in ways mundane and extraordinary. The person I'm becoming. The person I've always been. This tethering and untethering. I'm sure I will see the face of such love again. I'm paying attention. For the world inside this world, the heart inside of time and each path circiling around itself again and again.