and then it is over and i am stepping over the lifted tile in the hallway to jim´s room, loving the chambered ringing it makes in my ears. yesterday, we celebrate with dvds and moet, with the warmth that there is here, in the kitchen, in the loungeroom, in the solitude that we two both are sharing. and it rises, fills up the room, and it is singing just a little, and we are under it and in it and there is noise and quiet and laughter and the way that it is amplified, an open window that smoke twirls out of dancing and we celebrate in the quiet way that we have to, laugh in the quiet way we have to and jim makes a toast and i say indeed and we raise our little glasses against all the bad things that have happened and will continue to and we think of how we have to embrace them, make them a part of ourselves, stumble into the thick wall of grief and kiss it just a little, on the cheek. this is not over, nor will it ever be, but we forget it and remember it both. always. there is this.