Like how the
crossing guard cradles his stop sign like a vintage guitar.
Like how knowing
some things are good for you rarely make them more enjoyable.
Like how knowing
some things are bad for you rarely takes away their pleasure.
Like how the kids
in the park play with the puppy in a way that worries their parents and worries
me too.
Like how the
words written in chalk on the sidewalk always make me smile and feel a little
more hopeful, even if a word is misspelled.
Like how
flipping through vinyl records at a second hand store is sacred and soothing.
Like how
over-medicating before a performance will keep you from having a panic attack but
it will also keep you from feeling.
Like how the
40-year-old version on of me realizes the 20-year-old version of me could have
been more grateful for the ease of youth.
Like how the 20-year-old
version of me was sure the 40-year-old version of me would know how to just BE.
Like how your
husband takes you on a Sunday hike to a place called Amir’s Garden where there
are trails lined with jade and remnants of burnt trees and hawks hovering
languidly overhead.
Like how you will
always picture your brother, as he was the last time you saw him, standing in
your LA apartment, sipping a beer, sunburned and vibrant.
Like how one day you eat a peach with the skin on and like it better that way.
