I told myself,
Let it be good. Let it be good. Let it be good.
This is a bit of prose nonsense for you. It’s Christmas. Christmas, I tell you! If you happen to read it today, that’s very kind of you.
Let it be good.
We want good. We wish for it. We pray, if you are prone to prayer. We hope. We hold fast and steady but distrust it. How could good happen to us? Now? Really?
Let it be good.
I ask so often for the future.
I need to know.
I predict and push away because it cannot possibly be anything other than the worst case scenario I’ve planned in my mind.
The future is not here. It cannot be here.
I want to know tomorrow.
There are things we can bet on.
But tomorrow is not here. It cannot be here.
So. In exchange for the future–it will come–I stay in the room. I listen to my grandpa when he tells me a story of a queer woman he worked with who quit and a year later showed up and was married and pregnant to a man. I stay in the room and try not to dismiss him and pretend he isn’t dreaming on me.
I stay in the room, and make jokes about Trump’s America, knowing there are Trump voters present.
I stay in the room, and talk theology with my mother because we can see eye to eye and still never agree.
This must be loving someone.
Do not hurt yourself. Do not give so much there is nothing left to sustain you. You are all you’ve got. If you can, stay in the room.
It is Christmas. My big ass, loud ass family played games and opened gifts and yelled and laughed and weirdly buried the ashes of our year dead dog. There is nothing so complicated as love.
There is nothing so good.
I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.