Today, I Genuflect

Twelve years ago today, I woke from an anesthesia-induced nap lying in St. Paul Hospital in Dallas. I was starving and parched. I remember signing blood transfusion liability waivers because I was bleeding out. People came and went -- doctors, family, grief counselors, a priest? -- I can't really be sure. As I kiss the heads of my tiny salvations I think: does the day go on forever? Will this roast even be eaten? Could I really fuck up a wet dream? Wonders, and their ceasing. Hips, and their denting. Contacts, and their scratching. Heads, and their aching. Hands, and their wringing. Love is a funny thing.

There really are scary shadows and bad guys in closets waiting to snatch you up. Magic does exist in this world, without things happening because they are "supposed to". Prepositions can end sentences. Roasts do get eaten.

I have made heart-breaking decisions. I have been a grown-up. I have done right by at least one person in this place.

And now I would very much like to smoke a cigarette.