We still like each other.
We still like each other. I'm as surprised as you are, surprise hidden too well, shrugged shoulders as though everything were nothing — and is — because all we can say about the universe is (that it is) big. All we can say about each other is announcing ourselves to the wilderness. Bare borne, here I am walking, ground grows beneath my feet, so I must learn to expect hope (though beneath feet before ground is vulnerability, beneath hope). We have been trained to ignore the ground, both what is solid about it and what shakes. These tricks of the mind keep the inevitability of heart attacks and buses crushing us from crushing us, keep curveballs from curving every permutation into useless calculus. But let us find the lines that curve toward us and let our feet be surprised at finding the ground. Let our necks crane our shoulders unshrugged so that the sky can fill the hollow between with a kind of awe that undoes molecules. We will all be hit by buses (no matter the inbound or outbound line); there is no purpose in prediction. But for a time, until then, we have still, and we still like each other, and other such surprises, the ground beneath our feet.