The year in knee caps. (which have nothing to do with this post)

I've always liked the number 13. I've never had a bad Friday.

Cycles are fine. But years are odd. Each year is worth a white candle and a brisk body of water.

Odd, maddening, merciful, strange, the days. Each day marks turn, come to think of it. Nothing is where we left it. Gravity heavy harder on knotted anchor. the dust shifts corners. 

When you teach young people, particularly teenagers, there comes a day when you look in their eyes and you see they have grown. A day for aware. Awake in the senses to something they did not know before. I imagine they do not see this in their own reflections, so subtle the change. But as you age, you learn to look for it. In your own small glasses. Hear it in your own voices.

The years collect knowledge. absence. a different indifference. renewed trouble, angst and fear. sweetened bliss. 

Subtleties of our unresolved grit churn in mortar under the weight of our pestling bones. The body distributes. disturbs. Some days you wake alarmed at how fresh memory ruins in like the sun. 

And at how much you've forgotten. 

So another year. Here.here. And more acutely aware of each day, each hour. To love, we have been given movement. As great as our Nelson Mandela. As wild and loud as our Wanda Coleman. The voice is changed and colder (it's Winter here more often, you see). 

The street sweep kicks out kids once playing in hushed golden sun. 

Thankyou to my friends for keeping me alive. And writing. And unruly loved.