My arms; they’re scrunched up to my sides as I thumb my way through this thought. We sleep in one big bed now. Our bed, we call it. As it turns out, sleepovers aren’t just for when you have company.

It’s a feeling.
It’s a spot.
It was a time.
It’s yet to come.
It’s in my daydreams.
It’s in my breath- coming in and out of my lungs.
It lives in a poem my heart rewrites every trip around the sun.
It lives at my grandmother’s kitchen table and in the hourly sounds her clock made.

Sometimes it’s my feet in the dirt.
Others it’s in low lighting, having tea with a friend.
It finds me when I’m well.
It guides me when I’m unwell.
It’s what I didn’t know I needed.
It’s what I don’t know how to ask for.
It is peace, when I’ve surrendered.
It is joy, after sorrow.
It is laughter, while I’m crying.
It is closing my eyes, then getting to open them again.

It is in the seasons.
Coming with the sun rising in the East
And going with the sun setting in the West.
It is fleeting.
It is ever so slow.
It is all of the seasons bound together.
It is my life.

That’s it!
I found it.
What am I most grateful for?
My life.
Their lives.
Your life.
All bound together-
All of our experiences.
It’s in the mundane.
It burrows itself in my sorrow, just to bloom again with time.

It is my fear unmasked.
It is the ebb and flow.
It’s every year wiser.
It is slowing down, just to speed up.
It’s in my friendships.
My jobs.
My family.
My passions.
My failures.
My pain.
It is worth all of it, all over again just to feel it again.
It is in who I was when I entered this world.
It is in who I am tucked into our family bed writing this poem.
It is me, alive.

It is D.) All of the above