AVA I found I was able to reach out and find everything I needed. A couch from a woman I went to grad school with, a bed from my best, now bestest, friend, a lamp, it’s silly, but a lamp, a lamp from an ex now on speaking terms, a dresser from, well, from New York City. And I found my life, slowly, being rebuilt. Growing, in the end, to include people I had let slip away but found ready, when I really needed, to step in. This is a small island, packed with people and those days when you feel that no one is watching, no one is noticing, that if you did not cross the tunnel from the F train to the 1 at 8:35am on a certain weekday not a single hair on Manhattan’s head would be mussed, those days left me. And I became grateful for the way I was shook, more cleaved, from my ignorance and reminded of just what was out there if I simply asked. Of course I miss what I had. The cleaving was sudden and not of my choosing. But what I thought was going to build a cave in my chest became a home, filled and flush with newness, lit with an incandescent bulb. The glow emanated out from within, visible, obvious, every time I opened my mouth to say thank you.