i was looking at your picture

a sigh typically starts the process.

i may be browsing old correspondance, photographs, music--or maybe i've just caught the scent on the heavy air, saw a shirt long lost and hidden in my drawer, tasted the salty water, unintentionally, at the shore.

and then i'm elsewhere, bridged between now and then by that soft strand of memory. it's fragile, and i know it's not fully with me; it's not actually here. often i'll brush it away like a spider's web, thinking of how it's primarily a distraction from what i should really be viewing.

but now i sit down, lean forward, set my papers quietly on the concrete and brush the pebbles from my palm, rubbing the spots where they've marked my skin. i can spare this moment to look at you. there is enough time in the day, stillness in the breeze, and sun on my shoulders. i look and listen and remember.

you are a piece of this plait and you are more than welcome here.

you should always know that you've made me smile.
(i will take comfort in you)