and yes, all the things that are gone will always come back. isn’t that what heaven’s for? or maybe heaven is just like us, and we’re trying to find ourselves in it. we have an anthem and it’s playing on every instrument in the land. sometimes the water is murky and unclear, and that’s when it’s time for us to be patient, and gentle, and run our nets through to pick up everything we can. we plunge our hands in, and they feel cold, then warm, and dirty, then clean. the elders feel good for us to honor, and take care of, because the service, just like everything else, always goes both ways. tears scramble to exit my eyes as i place the last woolen sock my mother knit me over my heel. and when i remember you, the tears begin to flow, not of sadness, but of being finally unbridled, of feeling like my hands do, when they’re covered. we are a team, you and me, and we build up homes for everything that wants a place to stay, everything that wants sheets, maybe on their beds, maybe made of paper. it’s a gift to be holding your hand with my dirty palms and using it to make a new beauty that doesn’t hurt anymore. just because the elements are pressing against us doesn’t mean we have to give up, and call them a fact, we can use the power of our eyes forever to put salves in every wound, and to drain the blotted seas of all lands that were meant to be dry. unpleasantness makes me thankful, for i am off to feel once more; the world we crafted together is a constant starburst of exploration, and we were right to forget the act of making it. on the plateaus, we leave soft rocks for each other, to find, and to collect, and to make into bouquets, like the masters taught us. and we’ll play like we’re young, again.

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