What about this moment? What about this one moment that is all I have to my name. Everything melts away. The oil on the stovetop hisses and kisses me with searing spit. What about this moment? Where my hair drapes over the bathtub edge. Where the pilot decides to burn his extra fuel on the ground instead of asking 13 of us to get off the plane. What about this small glimpse of a moment when I finally remember that pouring hot water into my cup is enough. That I can enjoy the feeling of my feet finding hidden springs inside the mattress. What about this moment when I remembered that all that mattered was you, was us, was me in the morning when I felt my body so heavy with sleep. In my dream, the cords of time released me, this old painted bundle. I would dissolve into the colors of space, the way they connected and danced together in some infinite grace.  

Do you still remember me? The way I was when I was 13? When I was 5? That look in my eyes and the permission I had to absorb the sunrise and the low tides. The way crabs crawled into my hands. I wasn’t ready to let them go.