Our moments together were uniformly unpleasant, but I was grateful for every one.

Sick with worry, half-mad with hope. Talking to an empty room. Help is on its way.

Their rigorously maintained veneer of civility lasted 90 seconds into his birthday toast.

The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.

For the third time in as many months, the man at the body shop presented my repairs with an understated flourish. “It’s just like you have a brand new car,” he said. And I thought, how many times in life do you get to start over, as if nothing had ever happened?

Such sky, such earth, such trees, such absent leaves (which will return), such peace (that won’t), all this past and future splendor I leave you.

This was the day he realized everything was a bonus.