Grieving Doesn't Make You Imperfect.

I Was Woundering What He Would Say, What Word Could Sum Me Up Right Then, When I Saw The Lights Come Across His Face, Blaringly Yellow, And Suddenly He Was Brighter, And Brighter, And I Asked Him What Was Happening, What Was Wrong. I Remember Only That Light, So Strong It Spilled Across My Shoulders, And Lit Up His Face, And How Scared He Looked As Something Big And Loud Hit My Door, Sending Glass Shattering Across Me, Little Sparks Catching The Light Like Diamonds, As They Fell, With Me, Into The Dark.

There Was Something Striking About A Single Key. It Was Like A Question Waiting To Be Answered, A Whole Missing A Half. Useless On Its Own, Needing Something Else To Be Truly Defined.

It's All In The View. That's What I Mean About Forever, Too. For Any One Of Us Our Forever Could End In An Hour, Or A Hundred Years From Now. You Never Know For Sure, So You'd Better Make Every Second Count.

We Sat There, Not Talking, For A Few Minutes. He Ate The Moon Pie; Only Skinny People Can Scarf Down Junk Food Like That. Finally, I Said, "norman?" "yeah?" "are You Ever Going To Show Me The Painting?" "man," He Said. "you Are, Like, So Impatient." "i Am Not," I Said. "i've Been Waiting Forever." "okay, Okay." He Stood Up And Went Over To The Corner, Picking Up The Painting And Bringing It Over To Rest Against The Bright Pink Belly Of One Of The Mannequins. Then, He Handed Me A Bandana. "tie That On.

I'm Always Hopeful. I Feel Like I'm At The Prom Sitting Against The Wall Waiting For Someone To Ask Me To Dance.