My cousin Chris met me at the airport with a passport pouch, a money belt, ear warmers, ballpoint pens, sharpies, and strapped to his front Bella Bella the soft faced sleeping one whose face I started to miss after being able to see her two days in a row. And the profound grace with which my brother hugged and hugged me outside the bus. The chimera of the mirrored hallway and chandeliers. If there is a purpose to things then as adored and fortunate as I am I must be here to send a message of love. The man from the Ralph Waldo Emerson institute at Tavern on the Green talked with me about this modern thought—or not so modern, but we started with Emerson—that Jesus isn’t only in us but that each one of us is as divine as he is.
The kind of love that you present, I would not have known what to do with, he said. I would not have known what to do with you if I hd met you in college—that kind of stupefying person—I would have walked away from it. I would not have known that what is devoured grows back. The visual world is always changing, I told him. Once when he was talking he took me into his arms and I heard the vibrations through his chest of his voice. In the line at the cafe there were three black women being lovely and funny about picking desserts. Two of them had their cornrows spiraled into buns adorned/bordered by little silver balls.