When I looked down at her feet in brown lace-up boots on a crowded dancefloor on the West Bank and saw her dance moves started from the ground up and were wild, confident and cool. I had biked to the show on a BMX bike in a babydoll dress. I was 20-something and highly critical: in that moment heart-burstingly connected.
When we stood on the 28th street bridge under the fireworks and spilled our guts. It was hot that night and the echoes of the Uprising were fresh in our cells. As we talked, the feeling of apprehension I'd held tight in my chest for a month dissipated and melted into the sky.
When, at a party, a group of friends were about to make a birthday toast, she subtly slipped me a freshly cracked open, fizzing cold can of that sharp bubbly water so I, the only non-drinker present, could partake.
When she stayed late, even though the snow was falling thickly and we only had our bikes, so we could sing one, two, three more songs before bundling up and venturing out, our narrow tires slicing fresh paths under the streetlights.
When she made me belly-laugh simply by describing salad.
When we pushed our way into the conference room at the protest, each of us carrying one of her babies in our arms. Me trembling with adrenaline, she poised and resolute.
When he spoke in the cathedral at his father's funeral, graceful, eloquent and strong.
When she traveled fifty miles with fresh fish and her elderly mother, three children and husband, to welcome me back after seven years.
When they fearlessly strode into the thick cloud of teargas and smoke, to square up to the police on the highway that night in July.
When, without prompting, he offered precious refuge in a relentless storm.
When she remembered my mama to me out loud, with loving syllables.
When they mercilessly scrubbed the tub in our tiny apartment bathroom and filled it with hot water for my exhausted body, knotting the shower curtain up out of the way and lighting a candle and letting me be.
When she spoke about her art practice, coiffed and calm, magical and mild.
When she showed up for me again and again, and again and again and forgave me and held me close.
