December 8, 2020

an almost visible glaze of union

The carnival in that small Midwestern town. Last year’s reunions.
A triptych of outtakes from a birthday party. The getaways, the weddings.
The restaurant with the open-mic nights. A 5K with donuts at the finish. That view
from the corner of 20th and Church—all those frisbees and ice cream cones. Gatherings
around fire pits and the impromptu dance parties that followed. We cling to these images
of the world we used to occupy, grieve about what was, what we fear can no longer 
be true. And yes, it is hard to stand this far back, peer at our former revelry, 
the spark of lit candles and raised glasses and the casual overlap of limbs 
on picnic blankets. Here we are, too far apart to touch, and yet between us an almost
visible glaze of union, and it sticks like glue, like bubble gum, like second chances.