100 Proof

Perhaps half the magic arises from the packing. There are always questions: Is it enough? Are we ready? After all, what we are truly preparing for is what happened some other year, or never at all. We have no idea what will arise before us, like a plume of dust, after we arrive.

The lists, the bags of what we deem necessary, the bins of sundries are what’s required to open us now to later freedom. We bind everything, wrap it in cargo netting, and set sail on it toward a lake as bewitched as our hearts.

Many hands got me here—the knotted hands of strong grandmothers, my parents’ devoted hands, the compassionate friends who lifted me when I stumbled over imperfect ground.

My own hands have gathered experiences, made unexpected choices, written down stories I hope to tell for years. They remember the feel of my palm against your cheek for the first time, when the small fist of my heart began to release, finger by finger.

Here, today, the only hand that matters is yours in mine as we walk, together, into our next adventure.

* For Paul, on our wedding day.

From across the country, the reports come in: one saw the comet beside the moon; one used binoculars; one stood frustrated on an island, staring at the sky.

I thought about walking outside to see what might be there. A frigid arc of stardust in the sky might have been exactly the magic needed. But instead I stayed indoors, near the stove, stirring a pot with the lights low, listening to the mournful blasts of a train across the lake.

Stars pass by whether we witness or not. On nights like tonight, we must just let go.

There’s nothing wrong with stepping off the bus with shoulders back and just a hint of a scowl, with making eye contact with everyone around in a way that strongly suggests they step back, with wearing slightly-torn jeans that make it look like you’ve already gotten in a fight. But that stuffed bear you’re carrying, sir, the one clutching a puffy heart between its paws, belies that, underneath it all, you really do love someone today.

I feel for the poor guy, said the man next to me at the crepe stand. My wife was here telling him, no dairy, no butter, no this, no that. I’m just here to make sure he follows through.

He watched the crepe-maker fold the buckwheat shell over Nutella and strawberries. Please leave it on there extra time, he said to the chef. She likes it crispy.

I know exactly what she likes, he said to me with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. After 52 years, I know all the secrets.

There is ritual to the boxing of a life, to wrapping all the fragile things in paper, to deciding what to cast off and what to keep. Things fall away, like the cards from a lifetime ago that tumbled from a stack moved four times too many. Other things are made more precious by history and time.

Seal one box, then another. Bid farewell to the before, then uncrate the future. Let the packing paper fall around your feet, then discard it like letters from a long-forgotten past.