Tonight I would like to shout out to my MIL who sounds so good, who   had such interesting stories (including the psychedelia) about her surgery.  I love her,  am proud of her, and glad she’s doing so well.

Tonight I shout out to friends and neighbors who sent cards to make MIL feel good while she recovered.  The world needs more kind, loving, recuperative words.

Tonight I acknowledge the poison pen of me who wants to write angry things, things that suggest no antidote to the politics of the day.  I hear you, I write you, but I’ll not share  you just yet.  You are authentic, I stand up against you, but wait.  Wait.  Assimilate. And then let loose.

Tonight I acknowledge my wax plant who picked up where he left off and proceeds to take over the window ledge, leaves, shoots, and more leaves, more power to you! I am ecstatic that you have come back to life!

Tonight I try to assimilate a story about the 845. Their story shares the one that I live in. So many shootings, so many senseless deaths. I can choose to throw the towel in, or I can choose to fight for making the world a better place, grassroots on up. Don’t give up! I want so much to make the hurting stop, both here in VA and in NY.  I love them both.  But love seems to mean so little, my heart hurts because I can’t fix it for all of you with a flip of the switch.   Universe, please help us.

Tonight I think about the squirrel who side-eyed me face to face, he on the brick ledge and me inside.  I watched him today excavating tree limbs, hopping, resting, staring. I was so surprised when he came across my ledge while I was on the phone with MIL, but I watched him, wondering what next, fascinated.  Spring is coming.

I came here last year alone. Everything I needed at the time I unloaded from my car and slept alone, a long, body-tired sleep.  Two days later, a terrible fire rose and ate families from their homes on the coldest night of the year for this area, full of toothy wind.  Those firefighters.  Tonight I think about that small inferno, wind unrelenting, fire spreading, and what does that look like for survivors and first responders, the persons who helped people and their pets relocate? It’s been a year and it’s not all back to normal.  I think tonight about Mike who listened to me while I cowered in a freezing, dark car, afraid my apartment was next to be eaten. I had no right to ask him to be kind to me, but he was.

Feb 14 is Butch’s birthday.  Enter ghosts. Enter pleas. Enter memories.