Its March. I Open The Window And Spring Floats In, Kisses Me On The Nose. I Have Waited So Long- And

“It’s March. I open the window and spring floats in, kisses me on the nose. I have waited so long- and now the Sun is washing the world in yellow, and now the seeds sprout green in the dirt, and now the trees are budding and ready to bloom- and it was all so worth it”

— Schuyler Peck, Worth the Wait

Cemeteries are such beautiful places. Theres so much unconditional love.

Fresh flowers for a grandfather who died years ago. A mother's day card, a handmade ornament on a day you miss them.

Shiny balloons flying in the wind for he, who was a brief hour of beauty.

A tiny plant in a lovingly selected pot.

A husband mowing the lawn in front of a memorial.

A sister feeding the squirrels.

A bench, a birdbath, a message carved in stone in a sunny garden amidst cherry blossoms and daffodils.

All to say, they were here. They were loved. We loved them. We still do.

I'm looking for a particular calvin and hobbes strip where, calvin says how the universe came around to make exactly his parents and everyone before them and he is the culmination of all this.

And hobbes says "now what are you going to do with this realization"

And the last square is them watching TV.

I've tried googling all sorts of things and this is driving me crazy at 4 am.

And in these next 50 years you will eat so many delicious meals, laugh so many times with so many people you love, shout and scream and sing and cry and smile so hard your face hurts. And you will see such beautiful sunsets and feel fresh cold air on your face and feel warm and safe wrapped up in your favourite winter coat.

The legacies people leave behind in you.

My handwriting is the same style as the teacher’s who I had when I was nine. I’m now twenty one and he’s been dead eight years but my i’s still curve the same way as his.

I watched the last season of a TV show recently but I started it with my friend in high school. We haven’t spoken in four years.

I make lentil soup through the recipe my gran gave me.

I curl my hair the way my best friend showed me.

I learned to love books because my father loved them first.

How terrifying, how excruciatingly painful to acknowledge this. That I am a jigsaw puzzle of everyone I have briefly known and loved. I carry them on with me even if I don’t know it. How beautiful.

Life imitating art.