My dear old cranky friend, today I am grateful for you.
The way you are a scratchy blanket muting what’s too hard to face. A quiet cave; as much a retreat as a hiding place. As many buried treasures as monsters.
Your paradox: how you shut people away from one another, and you create intense connections between them in the tender places.
How you are a messenger, spitting & cursing your way through a critical missive that couldn’t be shared in polite company.
Your itinerant ways: how even when you move in without asking, track mud over the floors, eat all the good snacks, use the clean towels, fill every room with suffocating white smoke – eventually, eventually you leave again.
How you could have been worse.
(See also: this story)