i called my grandmother in california last week, to offer my condolences after the death of her last remaining friend. we wound up talking mostly about my life in philly; after all, monterey doesn't foster much change. as we said our goodbyes, she told me, "don't be sad. you have nothing to be sad about, you shouldn't ever be sad."

daily, it becomes more obvious that much of my strength lies only in the habit of its assumption. tell yourself something often enough and it becomes true, and all that. but i succumb to pain far more easily than i had previously maintained, and the fragility of my defenses seem directly proportionate to the distance from which i recieve the threat.

i don't know if my love for you makes me so vulnerable, that a single backhanded word can run hairline cracks through an entire evening, that the occasional closed door can seem like a fortress. i don't know if the failing lies in my own constitution, if my newly resurfaced sensitivity can't help but magnify the bad as well as the oh, so good.

because i have also been drawn to the smallest beauties - the shadow of leaves on a wall, sweet white sheets in the sun, the dragging flavor of apple cider. it feels as though i have lost a layer of skin, leaving me raw and flinching, feeling everything anew.

deep in my gut i harbor a spreading ache, a desire for wide spaces and soft skies and saturated life, and sometimes the whole ponderous spinning of the world makes me sad. i don't think it will ever be enough for me, nor i for it.