Sometime last week I thought I had seen a river over the road, but realized it was only the heat. I admired the feathers on an angel’s wing, but noticed I was looking at a finch on a power line, and it swiftly dropped and fled, flapping. I thought I heard the wind mocking me at the window, but it was just rain, and I was surprised to see it was raining after it had been so long. I opened all the windows up, and the door, eager for the smell. And, sometime the next day, I stumbled over a flower, only to see it was just a chalk drawing on the sidewalk, that beneath it said, simply:

You ar beutaful. I lov you.

And sometime last week I remembered something. That many years ago when I was about six or so I wrote the same thing. But I had drawn the sun, with large squiggly lines shooting out from the great ball of gold that enveloped all the letters, as if saying:

This is what’s in the light. This is what is bearing down upon you as you wake and the morning shines in.

Sometime last week I sat down and had a cup of coffee, and for over an hour I sat writing before my eye squinted from the glare of the star that beams down on me incessantly, as though so determined to remind.

You ar beutaful. I lov you.