A Party (Musing)

Sometimes the feeling will return to me, not truly though, not fully. It settles like a craving and appears like a bird overhead, a sudden gift come from where, headed for there. Only I wish that it would let me pet it or feel its soft feathered belly nestle into my cupped palms and its warm heart’s spirited tapping at my now enormous hands. But these are all I wishes I know, ones that make me wish I could still believe in wishes. Then I’d have a new one, for reincarnation, to live again in the fresh awakening of the world at 19 and 20, when I couldn’t bear the awkwardness of myself, not realizing that free to feel so apart from things was the most irreplaceable awesomeness. This must be how the rich feel, the very rich, who will never have to worry about saving for retirement, like children still, and always. As though they could lay their blanket down just about anywhere a little kinder than cool and have a picnic, a party with jokes and treats, like children. I used to picnic in all my waking hours; I didn’t even know that I was at a party.