My balcony consistently brings me love. Rain or shine, it never disappoints. I have six days left here. And with each one, I find myself sitting out here and just staring. My gaze carries me far and near, while Taylor sits next to me, sometimes gnawing on a bone I bought for him from Mollie Stone.
It’s grey today.
And like any other day,
I’ve a feeling the grey
Will go away.
So I just sang a song inside my head, an old one that predated me by a generation.
“We’ll meet again, someday.
I don’t know where.
I don’t know when.
But we’ll meet again on a sunny day.”*
A week later, I drove back to Chicago from the Bay Area with my best dog and my best friend, leaving everything behind. I held my ruby stone in my hand, and safely tucked it away in my pocket, never letting it go.
And then just like that almost a full year later, I did. I threw it away, and never saw it again.
“We’ll Meet Again”, by Vera Lynn (1939)
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