I met thirty-two teenagers.
I ate too much ice cream.
I walked up and down hills in the rain.
I was prepared.
I read a poem.
I threw open the magnificent windows of the old inn overlooking a white house with shutters. I wanted to sing into the trees like Kate Bush, but did not.
I listened to birds.
I returned happy.
I did what I always do: I visited his grave, my old friend, and left a pebble. I was watched by a lone police cruiser who studied the tall girl gone to the graveyard in her platform shoes and purple dress, who waited as I walked through the gates and back to my car, unharmed, un-stricken, and then he sped away.
I found a folded one dollar bill.
I collected wind-blown rose petals (pink).
I saw a light plane take off in the field. I saw all the places I wrote about in my book: the airport, the factory, the old house, the school.
I discovered my feet fit exactly in the shoe-imprints left in the concrete of the sidewalk.
I was stopped by a stranger who said, Was that you I saw talking to a squirrel? They’ll talk to you, you know. They’re real friendly.
I mentally narrated it all to you.
I dedicate it all to you.
I love you with every step, blink, beat, and breath.