Amidst violent assertions of apocalypse and rapture, we have found love. We have found love under thunderous, rolling shouts, and we have found uncertainty in the interstices. We walk sweet and excuse ourselves twenty times too many when those tectonic plates shift, and the earth swallows us whole. But we are fine, because we are whole. We manage, because we are whole. We are true and warm and real and we are whole.

She says, “I don’t often fear for my safety, but I did that night.” Half of the room agrees with her. The other half, the we half, the us half, tell her it is an articulation of what is always present. What is always echoing. For centuries after a comet burns out, its light can be seen on earth. And our planet is riddled with craters, scars from the beatings it’s gotten from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, looking the way it did. But it, like us, has managed. And though misshapen, it, like us, is still whole.

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