We met on a rainy day in the crucibles of our own grief. We had both lost men who happened to have the same first name. Hers a year before mine and a lover not a father. But then my father was a lover too I guess, just not my lover. But he had made me that way, through loving.
And in the chaos of loss and the certainty of more of it to come butting up against all of the uncertainty as to when it would happen, we threw caution to the wind, messy like a liquid but lucky like a ridden wave. It would, we decided, be messier, all of it, to do nothing about us at all. And so we turned ourselves into that us and wrangled all the beautiful things that felt effortless like a wildflower bouquet in the hands of a child who had just crossed miles of mud to get it
