It is Saturday. Henry minds the booth. He hands me my ticket. It is the same ticket I have held before, soft around the edges, tender as old skin. It is completely new and laughing. Hello Saturday, how lovely to see you again, how lovely to be hear. (hah! Here/Listening. Lovely. How lovely.)
Thank you for the birds whose voices roused me. Thank you for the witness of the dream's disappearance. Thank you for the blessings and the room to breathe into. Thank you for charged batteries. Thank you for the burble of boys singing themselves back to me.