what the living do, by marie howe

"i've been thinking: this is what the living do. and yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, i thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: this is it. parking. slamming the car door shut in the cold. what you called that yearning. what you finally gave up. we want the spring to come and the winter to pass. we want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss - we want more and more and then more of it.

but there are moments, walking, when i catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say the window of the corner video store, and i'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that i'm speechless.

i am living. i remember you."