They were the best and worst of us. And not all of them made it. Some crashed swiftly to the ground and never found the poetry of perfect movement. Others never fell from grace and found a solid landing, slowly, artfully, and with purpose. But they all had a chance. One by one they took flight, twisting, turning, swooping down.
You know winter holds gray days that take you to dark places, brief bits of laughter book-ended by melancholy. That you’ll find yourself silent, listening to the strains of the National on repeat, exile, vilify, wishing it was still summer because even if your heart was heavy, you felt light.