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I mostly have a nearly impossible time imagining the future. Like big-picture-future.


But then I think about all the nights still to come that’ll see me don my gold-glitter heels and stay out way too late.


And I think of the Sunday mornings when, in nothing more than an over-sized t-shirt, I’ll read the Times and attempt the crossword and drink three lattes in a row.


I think of late evening strolls in those deep summer months when the city is quiet and the only respite from the heat comes hours after sunset.


I think of the times I’ll wear a bikini for reasons having nothing to do with how I look in it.


And of bike rides and rich meals and mornings that’ll tangle sheets. Tuesday nights and too many margaritas and Wednesday mornings paying the price.


I think of long glances--their genesis being, as of yet, unknown. (Maybe).


And I think of the small leaps that bring two people together—held-hands and fumbled language.


I think of the many collared shirts yet to be unbuttoned.


The discussions and the fights. The words you give to a person and the worlds you let them in on.


I think of the vibration—the frequency— of a child’s laughter and how that’s maybe the only answer I’ll ever need.


And how the rest will sort itself out. Big picture brought into focus by the mess and blessing of mostly ordinary and nearly perfect details.


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