I have no greater expectation than disappointment, or dreaded, dark moments that make me gasp (grasping not for comfort, not for knowledge but for nostalgic narcotics, the brightest underbelly of human hand-holding).
Some days, especially those dressed in sun, I can curl in the very moment that surrounds me--beneath me, a proper love affair with life. Some days, I tell myself, that loss only prepares us for more life at our fingertips, for other days, however hard to wrestle through, however wet with tears or raw with passion. However imprecise.
The last time I was in New York, a close friend of mine looked at me over wine and French cuisine--lit up her eyes at the notion that I, who hid in closets to avoid leaving home; who checked in with my first love at least a dozen times a day; who was so afraid of small hurts; was now extraordinarily independent and strong.
I suppose I should be proud, tickled by this innate strength inside. But the reality is that of little choice. And I would forever choose my small, fanatic, frantic self over any type of human strength I have encountered and hoarded in these last few months.
It is not strength, anyway. It is worn will.
It is still loving the tastes and tenderness of life.
