I only meant half the things I said in the end
Hanging out with Melissa, the downstairs neighbor, and looking on as her three-year old son Lucas runs around the apartment. This is his main method of transportation, as he darts from one end of the apartment to the other, stopping long enough to deliver some random fact to us about the cartoon he is watching. We marvel at his energy, and it kind of begs the question: at what crucial point do you stop sprinting and begin the more lackluster trudge from one place to another? I don’t really know, but it’s sometime, somewhere along the way. Or is it just that the distances increase, forcing you to chose different methods of transport? He sprints into the kitchen one more time, accompanied by the sound of a steam train, whoo, whoo. “Mommy, this is Ryan,” he says two times in a row, pointing at me. “This is Ryan.” “I know,” she says back to him, “I realize that.”

It has been a pretty good week, in retrospect. Old man Vonnegut says that you should point out the good when it’s there to be pointed out, and so it seems right to do so. It’s just that it’s easy to forget against the vast tapestry of bad. But sometimes the cosmos align in your favor, and you can’t help but point out how rad everything feels, if only for a fleeting moment.

Last night I could hear A. playing “Bach’s Six Suites” on guitar in his room. It’s all high to low, and perfectly melodic. And I’ve never heard a song draw such an exact in between before, simultaneously making you want to cry and not cry. And I had the feeling, just before sleep, that everything was going to be filled with radiance and sunburst potential if you would only let it.