Blurred sharps, you are my journey and my reason and all of my minutes. Time apart is time together, you of the outlook and the compassionate maturity; I lack and ache. I wait and wait and wait.
This is weight.
It holds. Fast and momentary, you say words in voices that I hear, the bowed endings and confused vowels, orating like a removed version of your history, all the inequalities of travelling, the heat of hospitals and conflict, how may stories make a day?
Cooking is not the same as eating, the unfurling of flavour and the gradual assimilation of ingredients, a bread of sustenance, nutrients rescued, reductionism at its best. When you spoke of fathers I cried, and of mothers too.
You are confounder too, the promotion of honesty of heartfelt affection and the passage of time, a recogniser willing to protest and fight for a chance, a simple chance.
I left you walking, and hoped without thinking. This is best ignorance, top quality ignorance with guarantee, one I am aware of.
I should say we, though, we are two.