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in the final exit i burned through each room, touched floor and walls, wiped mirrors, swept and wept. it had been a full week of different kinds of tears, an empty house on fire.

wednesday i found the feather near the creek, walking from work. amidst moments of joy, listening to i turn my arm mixed and remixed. wanting immensely to appreciate nell for enthusiasm and encouragement with all things movable. at the new nameless home, she let me hug her, thought the feather might belong to some type of owl.

that evening, noah and i talked softly, metaphysics and delusions, dreams/ intuition/ psychic phenomena. i shared a strange experience, at twenty years old: a vivid dream -a large snake thrown at me which wrapped around my body three times, the head entering my mouth, biting the back of my throat and not letting go. earlier in the dream, a wedding hosted by an a middle-school-friend's family; one of her sisters getting married.

at the time (my late teens/early 20s) i had been intrigued by dream interpretation, had read that snake bites signified psychic perception and weddings predicted death. a few months later, my lack of surprise in the conversation with my mom was notable: the sister of my middle-school-friend had suddenly died.

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this weekend, a return to philly. lack of memory, when was i here last? so many friends have moved away.

fancy house in west philly is a former funeral home, the now anarchistic collective of 15 or so years. the scraps of stories i picked up from traveling in and out over the years: tractor tattoo on the arm of a crush, the ghost that typed via voice recognition, jade's perfect bedroom, prints of portable fortitude in progress, chip's beautiful art in the stairwell, birthday parties on roofs. . .

thursday there were ten of us in the house's backyard, all listening closely and quietly to ramona's album release. not played live but on speakers, with their occasional soft interruption or insert: a wistful memory of their years in paris, a thank you to someone next to me for their violin loan on this track. intimate strangers, the trees sheltering us from the dripping rain. certain tracks were replayed upon request. my eyes half-closed through most.

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with friday came the most beautiful farm / farmer. jeannine's famous stories, the house of worms, turtle aquaponics, the single eucalyptus, crushing mint in teeth, vibrant brilliance and hammock swinging. better told with a view.

out to the roller rink, out to the woods, out of range, reception.

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at the camp on saturday, i am told the story of waffle and the wounded owl. he finds it while driving just days before. wraps in a towel, brings to wildlife rehab. waffle the boy scout, clown, flea market finder, dj and disco dancer.

some of us hike to the shallow silty creek, away from the mob at the lake's beach. daniel cannonballing off the log into maybe three feet of water at most. nearby limb of tree crashing down, butterflies darting up, religion and hitchhiking stories told, a cool escape.

wedding vows revolved around the vulnerable, articulating the flaws and failures, commitments to keep trying, save money for retirement, hop a train, become better negotiators.  those beyond -both fathers recently departed - honored by gusts of wind when summoned, a tilted canoe altar with flowers and photos next to the dinner tent. shiner wore a necklace made of living succulents, had the perfect net for a veil. i wore stripes, suspenders, lynne's black leather hat. held old friends close. we deliciously squished octopi for dinner, homemade tortillas. hard cider and wine, horchata and churros and dancefloor antics late into the evening.

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power out. storm in spurts. hungooooover sunday

morning birthday songs for lynne, a flea market accordion. someone on a cabin porch, playing soft ukelele behind the rain. i eat a perfect peach.

we drive. the rain. treacherous and talk of concussions. jen has succumbed to two this year, her messy brain feels uncomfortably familiar. we lament but she has two small children. for her a stretch to walk shiner down the grassy aisle.

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with rain came range and reception. then news.

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what do i write about him? these public testaments written on scrolled walls. rip. rip. rip.

weeks ago while packing, i picked through every physical photo i have collected, all stored in an old black typewriter case. i sorted and arranged, plotted an archive of sorts, to turn a box under a bed into pixels with links and mapped locations. a treasure chest.

everyone writes about his dancing, posting his favorite songs. that magical (everyone repeats it, again and again) friend of so many.

you loved the shit out of everybody, and we all knew it, felt it, loved you so big and bright right back. i smell. and hear. that heady oil, that fucking laugh.

certainly there is sorrow here, heavy. but what surprises me is that which rises up. you were a dream really, always so much more than your body. we shared this, both of us so sensitive, understanding... how many conversations did we have about ghosts? and never once about suicide.

*i will be on this side for you if you need it / can't wait to laugh with you on the other*