I love to party. Always have.
And I’ve come to love partying so much, I even love the day after the party.
Molls and I will be laying in bed, slowly waking up, a little groggy, voice hoarse from shouting and singing all night. The both of us, laying on our backs, recycling the evening in our heads.
And then one of us will kick it off.
“That was so fun.”
“Yeah.”
And we do this thing where we go through our favorite moments which inevitably becomes giving shout outs to our friends, kind of like they used to do on Romper Room when I was little where the teacher looked into a magic mirror and began reciting people’s names, taking a moment to acknowledge the kids in the room and the viewers at home…
“Chris is such a good friend.”
“Heather is amazing.”
“Jen and Doug are always so much fun.”
“Thank God we invited Amy!”
(Laugh)
Our little ritual begins to feed itself. Once we start, now we gotta go through the whole party and remember everyone, remember all the good things about them.
And we just lay there, and that’s all we do for a while, sort of staring up at the ceiling, holding hands because this beautiful circle of awesome people is something we created together. And apart. A life’s work. Celebrated.
And I’m certain that we’re not an anomaly, that there are others lying in bed, on a morning run, eating a bagel, thinking about others, and us, as if the vibrations of the party are still ringing outward, across the city and the bay.
The music still plays, the laughter still moves us.
We go into the world, feeling that invisible connection that no one has been able to prove, but everyone knows is there, like the roots of the trees underground and the wisps of the clouds passing into and through each other.
Descendants of stardust, we sparkle.