Dear God

Dear God, 

I was walking in my backyard yesterday when I thought I saw you, washing your son in the bathtub-pool-thing you set up the day before, for hot days like these.  He was smiling as all get-out and loving you.

Earlier, I was walking in Harvard Yard, and I thought I saw you pushing at your companion's shoulders as you argued with him vigorously.  Some visceral joy you got, as you weighed him down with question after question. 

And then, I was pretty much weeping when you called me and wished me well, and wanted to connect (and when you called me again, and when you called me another time after that).  So funny how your laughter can have infinite timbres, but the same loud love. 

I was walking into the subway when I thought I saw YOU weeping, and I was overcome with wanting to give you some of my own love.

I thought I saw you incredulous and afraid as I gave you some leftover ham to eat—panting from your mouth and obviously parched, I gave you some water, which you lapped.  Then you pranced away.

It was so nice to see you yesterday.

Love,

Zachary