Because it matters to say thank you.
Because it matters to say that it means something.
Because the universe needs to know it is cherished.
That I am grateful.
Because I can read those poems Dickinson wrote
and copy them neatly in blue ink
on black ruled lines in diaries I kept during school.
Because even Dickinson needs to know that her words
have travelled. Like all words do, even the harsh ones.
Because why shouldn’t one stop and breathe in
the misty morning air which douses yesterday’s stale thoughts
only to allow me to think again,
this time drenched in dew and clearer ever more.
Because there is blueberry cheesecake to be had,
and an oriental house down the street,
round the bend, around the lamp post
but when I am really hungry, the staples are abundant.
Because there are worn out socks,
and an open field, and there are friends in memory.
Because there is a person who smiles
while handing out the bags to me,
not knowing my name, not asking who I am,
not judging me when I disappear for days.
Because there is water. Yes, water.
Water is to be grateful for. Always. Always. Always.
Because there is love,
like energy, converting from one form to another,
sometimes in the form of an ivory coloured bracelet,
not made from ivory,
handed to me over causal conversation
about how many kilos of sugar needs to be bought.
And in the form of unreasonable demands,
which stem from fear, but they don’t tell you.
And in the form of a phone call about routine things,
yet ends with “Take care.”
Because there is a book club
that talks about court cases, dry scalps, hairiness,
and occasionally books.
Because there is me,
here after all these years,
a little beaten, a little celebrated,
and much loved, even when I didn’t know.
Because there is me, even after everything.