And the night ends in tears.
Staring at the full moon, listening to a song full of dance, understanding that everyone. Stops moving. Sometime.
Understanding that privilege is not (just) 5,000 square feet, or 6 trips to Whole Foods in a week, or even a car with no passengers 99% of the time. It is the great sweeping luxury of: buying without thinking about the bank account; acting without wondering if (praying that) your action will hoist you out of poverty, now.
In that testy apartment building Claire always picked up the packages for her across-the-way neighbor leaving them propped just so up against the door.
It takes 20 years to be recognized for anything that you do.
The family you make of friends and the friends you divine from family defy all of Tolstoy’s bad juju.
Where do people find magic in places where summer never ends?