Here's to the cherry blossoms that flutter and fall to the ground. To the flowers and fruit trees that bloom without knowing whether frost will return this season. To the birds that sing early in the morning, even when the clouds are gray, and the sun does not shine. Here's to the sewer grates that drain the floodwaters, and the roads we drive upon to get somewhere else. Here's to the beauty of each cat that stalks its prey without knowing why, and to the mouse that wrestles with fear from tooth and claw and talon and somehow keeps on going.
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Here's to the wallflowers who speak with trembling voices, to the boys who feel weak and to the girls that feel too strong. Here's to the curve of lips and the way a genuine smile will break them. To the first spent notes on stage and the music that follows. To the feel of clean sheets on the bed and sand between your toes and the way they grab for the Earth in a desperate embrace. To the taste of coffee brewed just right and the smell of pancakes and bacon running rampant through a home.
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Here's to all the fires I started and never once thought to put out. To the skeletons that paraded from within closets and fell forward in atrophy. To the words that make us think and to the way they sometimes make us weep. To the blood in our veins and the hearts in our chests that never seem to give in. Here's to my arthritic knees that creak and moan and still hold up each of my children. And to the way rain falling on a sidewalk sounds like sizzling steaks on a grill.
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Here's to the weirdos and the way they see the world. To the freaks that keep us on our toes and keep it all spinning wildly. To the children that will never be understood but will always be known. To the trees that sway with the wind and sound like the ocean. Here's to every compass that points the wrong direction but gets it close enough. To the ships that sail through bad weather and their unyielding masts that carry them home.
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Here's to kindness in traffic and while waiting in line. To the barista that doesn't know when to be quiet and to the customer that doesn't know when to speak. To the churches and their stained glass and to all the people within that live up to their own ideals. To the brick buildings that are worn but still stand and the mortar stippled by a man that is grown and gone. To the pianos with keys that no longer tune but echo endlessly in halls.
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Here's to the imperfections, to the way the world is and not the ideals and the definitions. Here's to you and to who you are and not what you could be. Here's to life and what it is and not what it needs to be. Here's to us. Here's to beauty.