Every year, I tell you that I’m leaving. For just a few days. I will think of you. When I hear the right phrase. The right combination of tabla, accordion, fiddle, and Hammond organ. But I won’t miss you. I will ache in several thousand ways (but least of which physically). I will be grounded and giddy and elsewhere and present. Like every year. But different each time. The way joy and love are meant to be.
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- I have discovered the appeal of going to a restaurant and having a meal alone: sangria and not having to share the house-made salsa. 2 days ago
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