I don’t know if it’s the sliver of my childhood, or the field of flowers, or Beckett’s hand drawn map, or my time away from everything I thought was important, but I feel the wayward pieces of myself sliding back into place. It’s not quite there yet, not the perfect fit, but isn't that what Beckett said that night on the back porch? Some of it comes, some of it goes. It’s about the trying. Settling into the happy when you find it, being okay when you don’t. Feeling all the misshapen bits and pieces and where they fit together. The delightful, ordinary blank space in between. I finally feel
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