Gratitude.

The house is quiet. Willie sleeps under the rose blanket and a dove pecks at the food in the feeder outside the window. From time to time it puts its big dove eye very near the glass as if to say, “Who’s in there?” The sky is cornflower blue — I remember that color from the box of 48 Crayola crayons. Cornflower is unabashedly specific. It looks like bruised summer.

Some intersections are more interesting than others. This one feels more expansive and the road behind me falls away as soon as I’ve passed over it. It’s done with me. I look back to see its familiar gravel and potholes and it takes itself away. Good. It does as it should. For my sake.

Up ahead, the path goes deep into the earth and widens. A reverse Machu Picchu. Those are its terms. Okay.

I said the other day, “Hell, at this point I’m just happy to still be here and to be afforded the opportunity to have this experience.” It’s all turning into quite a thing. A wonder. A marvel.

I guess sooner or later we all get there. Except if we don’t. Not everyone gets to come upon an interesting intersection and think about what it means.

My deepest gratitude to those who didn’t get there because they were defending my opportunity to do such things.