Sometimes I write notes and then find them later with something near gratitude. For an ability to forget to have the common sense to keep these things close. The finding sometimes happens when I am trying to remember what sort of self I ever was and if it matters whether I can answer.
It would be a stretch to call this feeling glad. I am not so mindful that I regularly feel glad to find my next breath. But here I am, needing one to come. And then this funny note from a strange stranger, and we fumble on in the dark.
