… and for the first time in my life, rather than happiness — than bliss — I would have this contentedness, the soft ochre light spilling like milk over the floorboards, knowing that this ordinary day could be so much, that the kitchen counter — a bowl of fruit; a warm cup of coffee; leftover soup — could be enough. that I can take a train into the city any time. That I have these words to keep me company. That if everything else falls away, I will have my memories. Ouro Preto, where I would wake up in the morning light and kiss his sleeping shoulder and climb creaking out of our bed. Where I would sit in the back of the house with his mother over coffee, pulling my sweater over my shoulders, looking out at the birds, the cool water lapping against the stones. That I could have this all, even as a vague dream, mulled together in something that is full of more holes than substance, but has so much the essence, so much leftover within it. And for the first time I am happy with my memories, with their softness, with their abstract plains and trains of thought, with the way I will never know for sure if they are real or if they’ve stepped out of my dream. There is a reassurance in the notion that history repeats itself. That light will always come back. The memories will always return as things you can’t tell for sure have happened or not. You will be happy again. I will be happy again. We cannot live without knowing that there will be quiet again… ❤️