When Julie arrived in Berlin, she brought music. She brought songs that would become the certain soundtracks of my immediate life. We sat at the bar beneath my house drinking hot toddies, on my couch in piles of chocolate and cheese. Everything seemed simple, but still ached inside.
It stuns me, looking back, that one of these artists was Sophie B. Hawkins, a hearty lady of my childhood blues. Somehow, she saw me through adolescence, and so in my post-poned teenagedom, she flashed her eyes again at me. Such circles we leave in, drawn by our very own toes.
Last night I dreamt of dancing. It was the first night that I did not wake breathless or in fear. It sounds dark, but it's honest. Though I was awoken, my heart was quiet, filled only with imagery of Brazil, sword-dancing and henna-covered hands. All was at peace, for a moment, the soft fur of my blanket warm against naked skin. I remembered what it was before, the soft of my cotton cocoon.
I suppose mourning is a process through which we encounter more and more of such moments, mere seconds of normalcy, impartial panting, soft sighing of our insides, too tired of being torn apart.
