Is?
I thought us was toast.
If I had a cool bil, I'd buy us all houses and I'd connect them in a star-shape by breezeways, to a centre dining room with a large, round mahogany table and chairs. Also fireplace with sofas, loungers, bookshelves, board games, puzzles. Wet bar stocked with stuff for everybody. Snacks. Pillows. Afghan throws and soft rugs atop honeyed wood floors.
Christmas tree, stockings, all the warmth would go in there. So many places to snooze or snuggle. Meals and holidays and meetings and lounging.
We could live in our houses and not worry about whether it's too messy, or "don't want people in my house rn because I've been sick, dirty, having a weird autism day where it feels like intrusion, etc" But everybody could still meet in the middle. Potlucks. Meet my new friend. Somewhere to gather, somewhere to be.
I tried all night not to sob. Texted through class. I still have one person who is solid then, and meant it. It feels like a reality-shift because I was ready to accept a thing I'd always believed and that was: I'm not capable, worthy or tolerable enough to stick with and love. That there's no such thing as life-long for the thing I am. Isolation is inevitable. And now I'm reeling from the sensation of having just approached a set of steps with poor depth-perception, certain that the next step was missing or much further down and adjusting my gait for the doozy...only to have my foot met by solid ground halfway up from the treacherous footfall I'd expected. It was always a normal stair all along? I misperceived the depth? Solid ground right there.
This is the only family I get to keep. Apparently, it's real and I get to keep it. Amazingly.