Unrelated beautiful things

A bearded iris in the morning's first light, the beard a glowing sea anemone, the petals a beaded Victorian purse.

The t-shirts I found at Goodwill, long enough and loose enough for my softer body.

The gladiolus piercing through the soil like a shark fin.

A friend's phone call.

The mental image of a butterfly struggling its way out of a cocoon, the struggle the only way it will ever be strong enough to fly.

The sudden realization that there are billions of people creating art in this world, and that this shared art will carry me.

The pieces of slate upcycled into a makeshift patio, singeing my bare feet in the 85 degree heat.

Matching bright pink geraniums with yellow marigolds and dark purple turenia in my flower pot, like I used to match embroidery thread in friendship bracelets.

The care of another human being, cashing me out at the grocery store: Oh, it looks like this bag of apples you picked out has a rotten one; why don't you grab another one on your way out.

The thought of picking up my son, my only son, and spending time with him in the car; his jack o'lantern smile, his hazel eyes, his bag of extra toasty cheese-its.

Just to be clear

I don’t want to get out

without a broken heart.

I intend to leave this life

so shattered

there’s gonna have to be

a thousand separate heavens

for all of my flying parts.

– Andrea Gibson