I made it to another summer. And while I listen to the rain land on the pavement, I listen to my failures reminding me of how many times I hit bottom, something my father never allowed himself to do, I’m afraid, though I suppose his failures have become, in a way, my strengths, and for that I am beyond grateful.

Like I know he did with me, I pick one up, and, holding it in my arms, tell it everybody’s unsure if they’re going to make it, and that’s okay.

Tomorrow, I’ll make sure my failures are out of the sun, while I stroll them down the street and sing them reassuring songs meant to keep us all from feeling locked behind a psychiatric unit or blowing out like a light that keeps going out every time you light it.

I suppose, like the sparrow that comes to visit me at my window and who I’ve taken to naming Coca Cola, because that just feels right, I’ll remain front and center on the rail, to listen to my failures, even when their chirping gets unbearable. Even when I don’t want to, I’ll stay.