We make groggy coffees together each morning and hug each other tightly through the nights, dreaming of lightning bugs, cinemas, flying cars, and boats on a lake. We wake each dawn to purge the wisps of the visions before the fade too quickly.
I’m seeing it all through eyes of my heart,. I see myself working through the tides that rise. Hand in hand. The broken car. The searches for purpose. The bike rides to a yoga class. The deadlines of his career. The weight that is carried with grace. The walks in the neighborhood with a slow steps and good conversation. The dark corners of the bars we smile across small tables at each other in. The big dreams and plans and ideas.
My job is a new language. One that I am familiar with in the sense that I have always window shopped it. It is the language of hunger. Of drive. of a sense of humbling ego to fulfill a task that feels urgent yet in scope, does not change the ocean tide.
Jillian Prendergast. Writer. 