Can I walk past the candy corn and pretend we don't already have an intimate relationship?
Can I bring a care package to my oldest friend whose beautiful mother is too weak for chemo and not wonder about the remaining years or days of my own?
Can I reconcile the age on my driver's license and the number on the doctor's scale with the nymph of a girl I feel like inside of my head?
Can I embarrass my son less than a dozen times per day? Can I ask fewer questions? Can I be less emotional?
Can I stop scratching the poison ivy, let the skin scab and peel to the fresh pink skin underneath?
Can I stop worrying if my book will arrive in time for my book launch and if it does if I'll find typos and if I do can I live with them for the rest of my life?
Can I still my thoughts, quiet my mind and turn it over, even in yoga, even in meditation, even in the deepest of sleeps?
Can I accept the typos, the scabs, the scratches, the itch, the illnesses, the embarrassments, the scales, the candy corn exactly as they are today, as if, at least for now, they were meant to be?
Not yet, but I'm working on it.