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capable of radiant joy

march 24 2024

I am almost twenty-eight. It's raining. Wine wraps my thoughts in peach fuzz. I am sitting across from someone I love. Warmth from the patio heater floats down to kiss the back of my neck. Rain mist settles on my arm and feels like a sea breeze or the spray of water over the bow of my father's boat. I am wearing my great-grandmother's jewellery. My mother's smile beams out from my face. I look across the table and must explain myself: I'm so happy.

It is the next day. I am nearer to twenty-eight. Spring is making a valiant attempt, determinedly sprouting crocuses and clearing the sky. I go for a walk with someone I love. Sunlight paints windows on my living room carpet. In my kitchen, I cry for no reason at all. Tidal sadness swells and retreats. When, last year, I dabbled in affirmations, I decided they could not be aspirational; they must be true. I think, "I am capable of radiant joy."

And I am.


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