You are the last one awake, and you are cleaning.
There are red cups everywhere. When I filled a room with cups it meant something huge had happened. You look at them like they are just going to be sticky in the morning. But you are smiling a little. I saw that.
The music got turned way down so it's just the low part you can feel in your feet. You know all these people. That's the part I can't get over. When I was you, I only knew the kids on my street and my teacher and Grandma. You made all these ones yourself. You found them. Some of them hugged you at the door like they meant it.
You said you were going to have a house with a trampoline and a dog and friends over every single day. There's no trampoline. There's no dog yet. But there's a whole kitchen of your people who didn't want to leave, and someone left their jacket, which means they're coming back.
Two of them are still on the couch, talking quiet, and you keep glancing over so they know they can stay as long as they want. You always said you'd make everybody feel picked. You still do that. You didn't lose it.
You're tired. I know that's a grown-up thing. But you're standing in your own kitchen at the exact middle of the night, in the light over the stove, and it is quiet, and it is yours.
Did you know we'd get all this?