On Friday, November 19th, in the wee hours of the morning and at the end of a lunar eclipse, our own Petra Luna sauntered—not to say leapt— out from behind the curtain and onto the Great Stage to the sound of applause and into a host of loving arms.
She’s beautiful and perfect and I love her.*
And it’s scary, though. This time, at this late hour, after tragedy and heartbreak and with much of my youthful brashness worn away, it’s more frightening than it’s ever been before. The weight of love.
One of the things that Ida’s death left me with was an ever-present awareness of how quickly everything can change.
Here’s another many-months-old scrap from my journal:
*even though, like all babies, she is notoriously difficult to draw.
