Well, this explains itself.
We were talking about this earlier, actually.
This is titled Thank you, antidepressants.
Reader, let me tell you how I keep it together, friendships
and antidepressants.
Long walks on the beach with H, he pretends these are workouts.
And Nutella in bed with R, she sends,
boil the water you better have chocolate from her car.
And endless voice notes with L, she
calls them personal podcasts.
And WhatsApp stickers on demand from F, it is time to milf,
said her sticker with my face and red lips on my 40th
birthday.
And rants with H, another H, about weight
and the lands that spit us out and talks
under midnight bougainvillea with R, same R,
about our mothers' and children's rage
and daily morning phone calls with L, another L, about nausea
and skin and food allergies she's sure she's got,
though no doctor can confirm.
And I say, if you think you got it, then you got it.
You got it.
And jokes across continents with H an other, other H
about impossible geographies.
And arguments with M about whether we got
married in 2005 or 2006.
And I say, our first married summer
was a year before the war.
And he says, no, no, it was the summer of the war.
And we laugh at how we measure time with pain, but not
without tenderness.
And conversations with G, better name this one God,
about my dislike for organized religion.
And more voice notes with H another other, other H
about the opposite of grace.
This happens daily.
So thank you friends who are there when the sadness comes
or when my teeth fall apart.
My teeth tend to do that bi-yearly, friends
who unscared me of antidepressants,
who reassured me I won't become another Z or my grandmother.
And yes, thank you, antidepressants.
And you, reader, who stayed with me
and might be wondering why so many of my friends' names'
first letters are the same, and the answer is when
I said together in the first line of this poem,
I did not mean it against fragmentation.
[APPLAUSE]