A quiet room. A view of the sky with one live, moving thing, or a cloud. Hope, and belief in it. Love. The feeling of your pain as mine, mine as yours. The feeling that only poetry can produce. The night you came back, carrying an orchid in a box with a window. The way my father died with a smile he'd never had in life.
The grace of waking to a new day with no memory yet of the old. The necessary blowtorch of rage. The ability to carry on, one foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other. A heartbeat. A breath.
A sense of home. The sharpened senses of an outsider. Common sense. The world beyond the senses. The illusory, sensate realm of dreams.
Stars and their myths. The chutes and ladders of science. The power of naming, and knowing things by their names. Both of us, together in this lifetime. Living before death. Heaven as a place where we all have baby's eyes. The ability to see what they see. Trust/suspicion/trust.
Words turned into language turned into memory and sensation. The primary colors rendered in Cray-Pas. The oceans. Birds and their trees.
The knowledge of beginning and endings. The knowledge of tears. The alchemy of prayers, even for nonbelievers. The willingness to believe.