An old friend materializes like a forest fairy,

blue hair and cutoff tank-top,
gap in their tremendous grin,
squashes me tight and whispers,
“You look so good! You’re glowing!”
My instinct is to say it’s just sweat,
sun and humidity transforming me into an oven,
roasting me from the inside out,
until I remember when they met me:
rug pulled out from under me,
tripped through a trapdoor and sprawled
at the bottom, staring at a sky
that wasn’t mine anymore,
and realize.
Maybe they’re right.
With their hug still deep in my bones,
I belly laugh at Shakespearean antics,
letting the sound split the silence of the crowd,
then march to my car in the glossy city dark,
lips still curved in a smile,
confident feet unshaken by fear.
In the morning, I wake up shivering,
so I make a mug of peppermint tea,
root myself, cross-legged, to the floor,
and shimmy to ukulele music
until I remember what lightness feels like.
I leave the door open,
and my heart too,
and decide that my new sky,
clouds and all,
is still a pretty damn good view.