It's a Small World, and You've Grown

Not every night. Not at the wrong time. Not in the wrong way, the longing, regretful way, but some nights, especially late winter nights, if you're in the right state of mind, and the starlings have been flying lightly in great waves of movement from one bare tree to the next against the gray sky and blustering wind and falling rain--and that sight tugs your heart not with sorrow but with swelling love--it's okay, just for a little while, to revist the past, when love is only there, thankfulness is there, and your head is straight and you know you were right to leave. That the gracelessness of your years from then to now were necessary, and it's okay to be alone. The light is warm inside. And those songs are yours again, both of yours, and forgiveness comes closer, feels complete. I learned from him many things, many painful things, learned the breadth and depth can be stretched deeper and wider, ever wider, ever deeper. And that love is just not enough. And that love comes again, and its expansion is a much harder but more rewarding thing, is deeper and wider than anything at all. So, tonight, this music is mine, is another place, another time--and like the song from that time says, I can say to myself, "You are alone. It's a small world, and you've grown."


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