Hello Sorrow. Let's Take a Drive.

Pain can in a very strange way 
make everything seem brighter. 
Not better, but brighter as in more. . .
luminescent. 


Like because I'm already raw 
I'm extra sensitive to everything around me 
and extra appreciative.
I notice everything -


Like the robin collecting pieces of grass 
to build her nest in the honeysuckle bush
behind the wooden planks of Katie's
back fence.


Like the fat carpenter bees 
mysteriously working their way through 
the thick wood of her back porch eaves,
dropping sawdust snowflakes
as they carve. 


Like the combination of the breeze 
from the ceiling fan and the open porch door 
and how it feels on my leg. 


Like the way the barely dusky twilight 
shows the shadows behind the kids 
playing football in the street
as I leave her neighborhood. 

I feel hyper alive,

hyper present,

hyper grateful for every little thing. 

I guess it's because I'm so aware 

that everything around me

has an ending. 

I'm exposed. 

I'm accepting. 

I'm not hanging on. 

I'm taking the long way home, 
using all the back streets -
all the way from Baltimore.
I just can't handle 95 right now. 
So much life happens beyond the boundaries 
of the highway.
So much that I don't see
because I'm in a rush to get there 
the fastest way. 
But these stoplights - 
All these damned stoplights
are little reminders to breathe.


I'm beginning to see how sorrow 
is not all bad. 
It is creative fuel. 
It is an awakening gift.
It is an invitation to life. 


I love that it's almost 9 PM 
and there's still a long line 
outside of the soft serve ice cream stand. 
I wouldn't have seen that 
on 95. 
I've never seen that ice cream stand 
before. 
And why is there a giant sculpture 
of a hot pink bunny 
outside of that library? 


I want to roll down the windows 
as I drive 
and open my mouth wide 
to eat all of the cool,
almost-summer,
honeysuckle-laden
twilight air.