I remember,

Feeling the weight of heartbreaking silence slip through my fingers, pooling at our feet. It is thicker than water. Discovering that love must be coaxed & wooed, and bearing the frustration of not knowing how. The pain of the real self left undiscovered; the throbbing, stinging disappointment you feel as a boy. The terror of shame that turns to bewildering anger. The loneliness you can know only when trapped in corners. The embarrassment of chopping an onion while everybody knows something you don’t. A sadness that only a city knows.

and,

The lightness of a yellow-tinted memory. A B-flat tune, laughter, kind of blue. Bicycles, blitzing by. A father’s familiar voice and recalling brushing my dad’s rough 5 o’clock chin with my cheek as a boy, feeling its strength. The dewy dampness of her hair, like redwoods after a rain. The way you can still chuckle from a faraway memory, fading at the edges. Freedom is around the corner. The rough-hewn edges of the rugged cross. Yahweh is my father, he heard it once said then again, over and over. The gasps of children when they visit the zoo. The blueish melody of redemption songs. The solemn assembly of friends gathered in firelight. The noodles need more basil. Our tears are thicker than water, but they soon turn to a sort of flabbergasted joy.