In the afternoon, I stepped foot beyond the curtain to find two curly-haired men smiling. I handed them the information and then, in the glorious and unexpected sunshine, strolled through invitations and colors.

After dinner, the stroll in the rain was nice. We laughed those belly laughs of childhood, before everything became so hard. We had met so many years earlier, when we were writing poems of yearning and love on Saturday afternoons.

Once, we danced in the street for Cinco de Maio, a hand at the small of my back, a language barrier perfecting the night. It was all sensory then, taste and scent and imagination.

But oh how the years have aged us. In some ways, we are the same but in some ways we are very old.

Her dream has crashed down from the branches. Mine is only beginning.

Life is a series of beginnings and endings, sometimes with the same characters, sometimes with new ones.

The children continue to grow and learn and love. They are untainted until they taste unrequited love for the first time, which is always inevitable.

Why does the bubble have to burst? There was a time in childhood when I loved everything about me and everything about everyone else. When I spoke my mind with concern or worry of its effects. When I played with other kids because they were nice and interesting and they knew how to weather the crash of a tower of blocks.

And I remember my year of uncomfortability, fifth grade when nothing I did fit into the scheme of the popular.

Every child has that time, a time of not fitting in. But – oh – why?

I look at Asher, Eliana, Shaya, and see complex individuals with good and bad qualities but oh so lovable – how will others reject them and why?

My wish for my children is to remain as confident and unconcerned with the opinions of others as they are at this very moment.

Of course, at this moment they are asleep in their beds dreaming the dreams of the young. Outside, the black winds are fierce; the neighborhood behind me has lost its power.

And so I write the stories of a dream, for stories are sometimes all we have.

This moment is perfect – and I have a lot of those lately. For as many tragic stories as there are, I am hearing the happy endings I always want to believe in.

Go on. Take the day in all its wind and just be. In my office, a scented candle flickers against the backdrop of my ever-present computer screen. My Tiffany lamp is soft against the blue walls.

And the music is promising.

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