April 21st, 2014

When I spend time with Ezra sometimes it is as if I am slowly and gently touching many small porcelain animals I had on dressers as a child. There are worlds within worlds within him, and the way he picks up and puts on and smooths over his chest thoughts and perceptions interests me. He is quiet tonight, but his eyes are full of more stories than I have time to hear. My white wine has pear and orange and lychee, all of which "quietly linger" according to the menu, and it is true. Ezra's red is viscous caramel and berries. When I tell him again how deeply I have hurt, he makes a noise like the distant rush of wind through pines, a low, empathic anger at injustice and loss which is somehow without judgement. His instinct is equity and in this we are brothers. After, I sleepily move in my bed and rearrange the keepsakes and memories, all the tiny animals, on that internal shelf of the mind. It is good to remember and touch these tiny creatures of what has been, and the movement stirs up dust which shines like gold in the spears of sun through the window of the mind. And this time, this time, my hand is not even cut by the remaining shards of broken things. When I smiled at Ezra tonight, it was with more than my lips, and this somehow takes us back to a sunny river bank in a different April long ago when I was free for a moment, lying against poison oak roots on the shores of the possible.