I propose a toast. Let’s toast to the new moments and our terrible fears. It’s alright if we have just water and paper cups, our holy-rite will still be observed.
Turn the lights off, don’t forget the keys. Go too fast. Ignore the rain, just once more. Sit down, plug in, think but try not to understand. Do your best not to need anyone or anything. Bring a gift, wipe your shoes. Respect the love you don’t own anymore.
Smile, say hello. Three words about the day, nothing else. There’s a cadence to this; you’ll find it. Look at all the people, see what they found out.
It’s a birthday, it’s a weekend, it’s a quick vacation. Faster—you’re older. Slower—no one notices.
What will become of these rebellious plants and headphone cords; who will tend to them when we’re gone? Certainly not our children, the little bastards. They’ll probably try to sell them on craigslist. When I was young, we had respect for family—don’t tell me how it was—we listened to advice.
Turn the lights off, grab a well-worn coat. Don’t drive so fast this time. It’s only been a week, it’s only been a lifetime.