"Itsthelittlethings," she hashtags,
and I'm left stewing on that for days.
Tonight, the waiter from Thursday
meets us at the door, sincere, prolonged hugs for each
person, even the newcomer, like welcoming us home.
Somehow this tiggered that night,
my walking across the dark campus
to a waiting, fractured family,
cap in hand, my hand finding my phone
in an attempted act of adulthood.
Your voice, some thousands of miles different,
spooling over the globe like comets,
coming to me. Speaking over me in words of
Father, Lover, Mentor, Friend.
How completely I loved you in that moment.
How much you remade it into something perfect,
complete, though watermarked with tears.
I don't mean to equate you to Justin the waiter.
Maybe it was just the way love--
any love--
from casual to thorough to life-eclipsing--
can eat up a moment, swallow it whole
so that you know nothing but the muscle movement.
It's in these little things that I re-find you, re-know you,
re-figure out and re-define what all the little things became
before they were lost,
before they were just the little things.
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