How I love to show Love.
Wicked.
My inner geek is in love.
Why, yes, thank you.
Soon.
Hallelujah.
Could we with ink the ocean fill
And were the skies of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Though stretched from sky to sky
Seven years.
Love came out of nowhere of the rare kind. The type only the privileged few get to experience. ”Let’s conquer the world together” love. The begging-for-miracles-in-the-shower sort of love.
And then, grief. The kind that leaves you knowing you are alive. All of her cycles desired pure consumption. Often, I wonder if they are still here, chasing me.
Sometimes, I find myself on a plane, wondering what you would say to me if you were one seat over. The children we would have had, with their dark skin and soft curls, dance in my dreams.
He has brought healing.
Joy has returned to my soul.
Finally, I once again know how to hold someone’s hand. Even if that person is not you.
I am not she. And that thought no longer destroys me.
I pray beautiful things for you. Over you.
For I have been brought full circle. Redeemed.
May you see redemption, too.
Darling you’re with me, always around me.
Only love, only love. -Ben Howard
Build me a home inside your scars
Build me a home inside your song
Build me a home inside your open arms
The only place I ever will belong
I am still running, I am still running
So the story behind this photo is pretty hilarious:
FIRST, I get this letter:
Dear HONY,
My friend and I are obsessed with the guy who works the late-night shift at the Donut Pub (located at 203 W 14th St… Cross streets=7th and 14th). He works starting at 11:30pm every single night. The guy remembered my name after not seeing me for months—I had only been there once before. He is a real character and has the best smile you’ll ever see. You’ll know who I’m taking about when you see him!
-Margaret
So last night my girlfriend and I make a pilgrimage to find this man. After an hour’s travel, we arrive at the Donut Pub. When we walk in the door, there are two men working- one behind the counter, one in the back room. My girlfriend tugs on my arm, points to the man in the back room, and says: “That’s him! I just saw him smile. That’s him!”
We explain to the man behind the counter that we want to photograph the man in the back room. He says it is not allowed. We are very persistent. He is very reluctant— saying we’ll have to come back when the manager is there.
Things turn a little chilly. Awkward and chilly.
Eventually he is convinced to go to the back room and tell the man that we want his picture. He comes back and says, “He doesn’t want his picture taken.”
Finally we pull up the letter on a smart phone, and show it to the man behind the counter. “Will you at least read it to him?” I ask. The man behind the counter reads the letter. Suddenly he starts to smile. Then he starts to blush.
The whole time— he’d been the man we were supposed to photograph.
“I was so confused,” he explained, “the man in the back never interacts with customers. I had no idea why you wanted to take his photo. Plus he’s not much of a smiler.”
THEN, just when things couldn’t get any nuttier, the person who wrote the letter walks in the front door.
Si.
