43

Today would have been Ezra’s 43rd birthday.  The weather in NYC is the kind he liked the least- wet and unseasonably warm, yesterday’s snow melting into gray city slush.  I imagine he would have spent the day in his shop, determined to make something beautiful out of it.  In imagining this, I feel his distance.  Not his absence, as I have felt so intensely over the last two and half years, but the space-time between then and now, him and me, us and this.  I suppose that’s what happens after some number of moons and trips around the sun, especially in relation to a traveller like Ez.  But I have struggled to make sense of this particular flavor of pain, much less move through it with any grace.

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