His early morning toes stroke my ankle. We sit on the edge of the tub, our faces in the mirror, heads lean on the other, and we brush our teeth. An oriole stops for a drink. Bacon and eggs. One of our bunnies didn’t make it, and we fold into each others arms like we lost a best friend because death still feels so raw. Reading twelve-year-old Joyce’s letter from Pangani, my greedy heart pops like a balloon.
Praying: May I owe no one anything except to love.
—A long walk.