On being cared for

During the last week and a half, I have been cared for by people in ways for which I cannot even begin to thank them.

Letters and messages and phone calls of encouragement from friends I haven’t seen in years and friends I just saw the evening before;

Long talks with two old friends about everything from ceramic squirrels and how to find them to travel to life to crack juice and number one fans;

A road trip with a dear friend who spent 22 hours in a car with me and offered an ear, boob jokes, unfailingly wise advice, personal anecdotes, and the encouragement of honest self-reflection;

A friend who spent three nights in a row with me, made me laugh, ate the food I didn’t want, gave me music, and, on one particular night, put up with my “I think tonight is a night to do shots” drunken ass during which I told bizarre stories, blended phrases that didn’t belong together, and inexplicably misheard everything as “cocks”; and

Gifts from someone who has known me my entire left that are intended to inspire me, make me smile, and keep me warm.

Thank you, my lovelies. My gratitude is deep, and my memory is long.