Threshold

Holding an ice cream cone and standing in the atrium, watching the conference attendees pick out Stanley cups to put in the crook of their arms, like babies, Tim pulled me toward an impossibly tall tree, our own forest. He said, I love that you are always exactly who you are. And it felt wrong to lick the ice cream cone because Tim knew I was divorcing my husband and knew that I was hiding in a basement at night and knew that my children only watched TV and knew how often we ate an entire pan of Rice Krispie Treats, as a way through it all. He put his hand on my arm and it was warm, like the sound of an owl on a lonely night. His words the bird that had wandered into the atrium to carry my heart over the threshold.