Dear Me,

Image via We Heart It https://weheartit.com/entry/152216807/via/1104701

Oil on canvas

when i am thirty-three and finally hitting my stride and high-school-me is a young girl i have long since absolved and sent to bed        and when i’ve come to adore the quiet i’ve built in the evenings while the families sit at their tables and i dip brushes into paints       and when i’ve perfected the task of summarizing my life in a way that does not make people feel sorry for me        and when i have quit thinking about it at all, even in flimsy, fleeting fantasies,  that’s when Love arrives.  Love is a moppy anachronism with one muddy shoe wedged in the doorframe at eleven-thirty p.m. on a weeknight, about ninety thousand hours since the last time i even thought to set a place for it at the table           and asks me through crooked teeth what’s for dinner        and i tell Love that dinner has come and gone and that i’ve been making single-serving meals for the last  ten years anyway because i am self-actualized and content        and Love asks me what’s for dinner,    and i forgive Love for tracking mud across the carpet i had finally remembered to vacuum    and i forgive Love for arriving with watery eyes and an empty belly and without calling ahead       because there are leftovers packed away in the fridge and blankets folded up in the hall closet      and i forgive Love for arriving messy        and i forgive Love for arriving late and i forgive Love for arriving       because Love arrived.

I laughed at this for a solid 5 minutes

Solange’s listening party for A Seat at the Table