One Year

One year, I will be able to say that my life has been working toward this point. I will stand, and I will shout to those that listen, that I traveled here all the way from the 1980s. Just. For. This. Moment.

And, I'll pretend that statement is exclusive.

That it isn't true in every scenario.

That this sandwich I'm eating hasn't been the culmination of every moment of every day. That I didn't work hard, just to survive and eat this crust and peanut butter and jelly.

Not that those sandwiches aren't exclusive, let's be honest. With bananas. Maybe honey.

That this chair isn't the chair that I am sitting on after 20-something years of carefully sitting on chairs. Finally. This chair.

That that look in your eyes isn't the look I've waited to see since I noticed people had eyes, or looks.

And boy, do you have looks.

That every well placed word isn't the upward ascension of the last.

That every fragrance hasn't been in the making since I found out about nostrils.

That every thing.

Everything.

That everything isn't this exquisite mess that I love and love to love.

At that moment, I'll pretend that my life, bar nothing, has been waiting for that moment.

And, I will be a liar.