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Times of transition are important, a man named Lewie tells me the other night. We should make spectacle of them. Not in a circus kind of way, but in a reverent and celebratory sort of way. We should celebrate and send folks off into times of transition, he says. He says I should be celebrating.

But transition reminds me of a time when things were changing and I was scared. It reminds me of a time when I was prone to spontaneous tears. These kinds of days are hard, but I have them when change comes around.

So when I’m in the shower, the hot water draws blood to the surface of my skin, and change draws tears out of the corners of my eyes, carving a new kind of river down my wet cheeks. Salt water and fresh mingle at my feet and rush down the same drain. When I’m throwing laundry into dirty piles, I soak sleeves of worn clothes and say out loud, I’m scared. Nobody hears and the piles reach the ceiling.

It’s time for a change. But all of these piles can’t stay.

In this jovial celebration, I will wrap my arms wildly around the new, my feet light on air as they dance across the grass. The blades, when the tickle my feet, will draw hearty laughter from deep within me, a laughter too loud and not tamed from a woman in a sundress and no shoes. I will celebrate when the thing that is next is unknown and the place that I’ll live is not there and the friends that I know are staying here.

This is a time of transition. I will not cry.

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